
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

© opiji ' ipljl llo 

- Shelf 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






>' 










l’ 




1 


i 


* 


I 

•l • ^ 

'■'J, . •' 

t 


. / 


» 




t 


f-- 


r ' ■ ■;■■■' 

1 . • ' ,' 


' ^ 1 ] > ' 




1 . 





J 


f • 


r 


t 

P 




« I 


s 


•i 


% 



\ 

t . ' - 


\ 


/ 






s 


\ 


i 



y 




i 


I 





f 


« 


t 





t 












9 








I 


t 


f 



% 


/ 


I 


k * * 









39 


cej 




No. 1139. 

A MODERN . {:- 

J. FITZGEBALT ‘ 

BY 

MAGICIAN K- 





eBU'<»d. .a tl t Pott OOm, M. T.. m Meond-cUM matter. Cofj^t, ISM^^Jon W. Uvsu Co»a»t. IiMad Tri>Wwkly. 



“The Plane.” 

Particular attention is invited to 
onr new French Corset, “ The Diane,” 
ranging’ in price from $1.50 to $5.50 
each. Onr customers are cordially 
invited to examine these most excel- 
lent Paris-made Corsets, which coni- 
hine new features in style and shape, 
and are absolutely controlled by ns 
for the United States. 

James McCreery $c Co., 

Broadway and 11th Street. 


STUDIES IN ENGLISH SPELLING. • 


FIRST LESSON. 

A wealthy young man had a yacht, 
Disfigured with many a spacht, 
SAPOLIO he tried, 

Which, as soon as applied, 
Immediately took out the lacht! 

SECOND LESSON. 

Our girl o’er the housework would sigh, 
Till SAPOLIO I urged her to trigh. 

Now she changes her tune, 

For she’s done work at nune. 

Which accounts for the light in her eigh! 

THIRD LESSON. 

There’s many a domestic embroglio — 

To describe which would need quite a 
foglio. 

Might oft be prevented 
If the housewife consented 
To clean out the house with SAPOGLIOl 


FOURTH LESSON. _S 

Maria’s poor fingers would ache, 

When the housework in hand she would 
tache, 

But her pains were allayed, 

When SAPOLIO’S aid. 

Her labor quite easy did mache! 

FIFTH LESSON. 

We have heard of some marvelous soaps 
Whose worth has exceeded our hoaps, 
But it must be confest. 

That SAPOLIO’S the best 
For with grease spots it easily coaps! 

SIXTH LESSON. 

The wife of a popular colonel 
Whose troubles with “helps” were etol- 
onel 

Now her leisure enjoys 
For the “ new girl ” employs 
SAPOLIO in housework diolonell 


LOVELL LIBRARY ADVERTISER. 


\ 


HARDMAH,PEGK&CO. 

Waverooms, 138 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 

MANUFACTURERS OF 


35,000 THE IN USE. 

HARDHIAN 



WITH JUST PRIDE 


WE CLAIAA 
WE CLAii^ 

WE OLAIfyi 
WE CLAII^ 
WE CLAi^l 


that it is the only Piano in the world 
which has an iron key frame support j 

that it is the /)nly Piano in the world 
with a patent harp-stop attachment. ^ 

that it is the only first-class Piano 
sold at an honest price, 

that for purity of tone and phenomen- 
al durabilily it cannot ix'. excelled. 

tinat it is ilie only Piano which im- 
proves after two or three years’ u.sap 
and retail's its full power and tone. 


LOVELL LIBIUnr ABVERTISEll. 


POND’S 

TtefoMer ofHealiDi! 

For PILES, BUSNS, KEU- 
ML&IA, EIAERHSA, 
STINGS, SOEE THROAT, 
EYES, FEET, INFLAK- 
MATIOITS AND IIEMOR- 
BHAGES OF ALL KINDS. 

Used Internally and Externally. 

PONS’S EXTRACT CO., 
76 5th Avea, New York. 



&'tH«CT 111 


EXTRfiCT. 

CAUTION.— See that 
tJ»e words “PONl>>S 
EXT11ACT>> are 
blown in each bottle^ 
inclosed in a badT-col- 
ored wrapper, bear® 
ing onr landscape 
trade - mar k— none 
other is gennine. 

Sow. everywhere. 
Price, 50 c., SI, Si. 75 . 
POND’S EXTRACT CO., 
76 5th Ave., New York. 



ABANBOM PHYSIC! 

eiUTEN SUPPOSITORIES 


Cure Constipation and JPiles! 

Du. A. W. I’nQMPSON,. Northampton. Mass., says: “I have tesstecl the Gluten 
Suppositorlei^ and cousidcr them valuable, as indetxl, I e^ipected from the excel- 
lence of their theory.'’ 

Dr. Wm. Tod IlEtnicm declares the Gluten Suppositories to be “the best 
remedy for constipation which I have ever prescribed." 

“As Sauebo Panza said of sleep, so I say of your Gluten Suppositories: God 
bless the man who invented them ! E. L. Ripley, Buidington, Yt. 


aO Cents hi/ Maii^ Circulars Free^ 


HEALTH FOOD CO., 4tii Avenue and 1 0th Si, N.l 





LOVELL’S LIBRABT. 


COMPLETE CATALOGUE BY AUTHORS. 

Lovell’s LlBVtARV now contains the complete writings of roost of the be«t standard 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Oarlyle, Ruskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc,, 
etc. 

Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will be found larger, and th® 
paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

JOHN W. I..OVELI. COMPANY, 

P. O. Box 1992, 14: and 16 Vescy Street, New Yorlc. 


BY AUTHOR OF “ ADDIE’S HUS- 
BAND ” 

1106 Jessie 

BY G. M. ADAM AND A. E. 


WETHERALD 

846 An Algonquin Maiden 20 

BY MAX ADELER 

295 Random Shots 20 

8.25 Elbow Room 20 

BY GUSTAVE AIMARD | 

560 The Adventurers 10 1 

667 The Trail-Hunter 10 

673 Pearl of the Andes 10 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1021 The Trapper’.s Daughter 10 

10-32 The Tiger Slayer 10 

1045 Trapjrers of Arkansas. 10 

1052 Border Rifles 10 

106-3 The Freebooters 10 

1069 The White Scalper 10 

1071 Guide of the Desert 10 

1075 The Insurgent Chief ...10 

1079 The Flying Horseman 10 

1081 Last of the Ancas 10 

1086 Missouri Outlaws 10 

1089 Prairie Flower 30 

1098 Indian Scout 10 

1101 Stronghand 10 

1103 Bee Hunters 10 

1107 Stoneheart 10 

1112 Queen of the Savanjiah 10 t 

1115 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1118 The Smuggler Hero 10 I 

112J The Rebel Chief 10 i 


BY MRS. ALDERDICE 

846 An Interesting Case 

BY MRS. ALEXANDER 

62 The Wooing O’t. 2 Pa'i'ts, each 

99 The Admiral’s Ward 

209 The Executor 

849 Valerie’s Fate 

664 At Bay 

746 Beaton’s Bargain 

777 A Second Life 

799 Maid. Wife, or Widow 

840 By Woman’s Wit 

995 Which Shall it Be? 

1044 Forging the Fetters 

1105 Mona’s Choice 


, 20 ; 


15 


20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 


BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 


419 Fai ry Tales 20 

BY F. ANSTEY 

-30 ViceVei-sil; or, A Lesson to Fathers. .20 

394 The Giant’s Rol)e 20 

4.53 Black Poodle, and Other Tales .20 

,616 The Tinted Venus 15 

755 A Fallen Idol 20 

BY EDWIN ARNOLD 

4-36 The Light of Asia 2( 

455 Pearls of the Faith 

472 Indian Song of Songs 1( 

BY T. S. ARTHUR 

496 Woman’s Trial.? 20 

5U7 The Two Wives 13 

518 Married Life 15 

.538 The Ways of Providence 15 

545 Home Scenes 15 

554 Stories for Parentki 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

568 Words for the Wise 15 

574 Stories for Young Housekeepers. . . .15 

579 Lessons in Life 35 

582 0.ff-Hand Sketches 35 

585 Tried and Tempted 16 

BY EDWARD AVELING 

1066 An American Journey 30 

BY W. E. AYTOUN 

351 Lays of the Scottisli Cavaliers 20 

BY ADAM BADEAU 

756 Conspiracy 25 

BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER 

206 Cast up b 3 ' the Sea. 20 

227 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

283 Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon. .20 

BY C W. BALESTIER 

-381 A Fair Device 20 

405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

BY R. M. BALLANTYNE 

215 The Red Eric 20 

22f) The Fire Brig:ide 20 

239 Erling the Bold 20 

241 Deep Down 20 

BY S. BARING-GOULD 

875 Little Tn’penny 10 

1061 Red Spider 29 


1 


LOVKLL S LIBUARY 


BY FBAIiK BARBETT I BY S. D. ELACKM0a2 


1009 The Gre«a llesper ^0 

BY GEOKGE MIDDLETON BAYNE 

400 Galaski 2yJ 

BY AUGUST BEBEL 


712 Woman 30 

BY MRS. E, BEDELL BENJAMIN 

748 Our H unan Palace 20 

1077 Jim, the Parson 20 

BY A. BENRIMO 

'470 Vic 15 

BY E. BERGER ' 

901 Charles Auchester 20 

BY W. BERGSOE 

77 Pillone 15 


BY E. BERTHET 

806 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 

BY WALTER BESANT 


18 They Were Married ,10 ] 

108 Let "Nothing Yon Dismay 10 , 

257 All in a (Jardeti Fair 20 ! 

2(^ When the Ship Comes Home 10 | 

884 Dorothy Forster 20 

699 Self or Bearer 10 I 

842 The World Went Very Well Then ..20 | 

817 The Holy Rose 10 ' 

1002 To Gall Her Mine 20 

1109 Katharine Regina 20 


BY BJORNSTJERNE BJ9RNS0N 


3 The Happy Boy 10 

4 Arne 10 


BY WILLIAM BLACK 


40 An Adventure in Thule, etc .10 

48 A Princess of Thule 20 

82 A Daughter of Ileth ,.20 ! 

85 Shandon Bells 20 j 

93 Macleod of Dare 20 

136 Yolande 20 

142 Strange Ad vcnturcs^tf a Phaeton. . . 20 

146 Wh^te^VingR 20 : 

153 Snnrisc, 2 Parts, each 15 

178 Ma leap Violet 20 

ISC Kilmcmy 20 

1S2 That Be;iiitifnl Wretch 20 

1.S4 Gn?en Pastures, etc 20 

1S8 Til Silk Attire 20 

213 The Three Feathers 20 

216 La<lv Silverila'e's Sweetheart 10 

217 3’hc‘ Pour MacNiools 1(1 

218 Mr. Pisi<tratns Brown, M.P 10 

225 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

2 >2 ^Monarch of Minciug Lane. .20 

456 Judith Slvikespeare 20 

584 WiseWnm ui of fnverness 10 

678 White Ilenther 20 

958 Sahina Zen i bra 20 


BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 

105 Woman's Phu^e To day 20 

697 Fettered for Life 25 

BY KEMPER BOCOCK j 
1078 Tax the Area 20 i 


851 I.ODia Doon<\ Part I. ,.. 29 

851 T.orna Doone, Part IT ...!M 

9:](> xMaid of Sk r 20 

955 Crad(u;k Nowell, Part T 20 

955 Oiuiock Nowell, Part II 20 

tXil Springhax en 20 

1031 Mary Anerlcy 20 

1035 Alice Lorraine 20 

1036 Cristoweii 20 

1037 Clara Vaughan 20 

1038 Cnpps the Currier 20 

1039 Remarkable History of Sir Tiios. 

Upmore ...20 

1040 Erema ; or, My Father's Sin. 20 

BY RHODA BROUGHTON 

23 Second Thoughts 20 

230 Belinda.... ...20 

781 Betty’s Visions 15 

841 Dr. Cupid 20 

1022 Good-Bye, Sweetheart 20 

1023 Red as a Rose is She .20 

1024 Cometh up as a Flower, . . 20 

1025 Not Wisely but too Well 20 

102(5 Nancy 20 

1027 Joan 20 

BY ANNIE BRADSHAW 

716 A Crimson Stain ..20 

BY CHARLOTTE BREMER 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer .20 

BY (JEAKLOTTE BRONTE 

74 Jane Eyre 20 

897 Shirley 20 


BY MISS M. E. BRADDON 


88 The Golden Cult 20 

104 LadyAudley’s Secret 2C 

214 Phantom Fortune .20 

266 Tliulor the Red Flag 10 

441 An Ishinaelite 20 

555 Aurora Flovd 20 

588 To the Bitter End 20 

596 Dead Sea Fruit 2C 

698 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

766 Vixen 20 

78.3 The Octoroon 20 

814 Mohawks 20 

868 One Thing Needful 20 

86) Barbara; or. Splendid Misery 20 

870 John MnrchmonPs T*egacy 20 

871 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

872 Taken at the Flood 20 

873 Asphodel 20 

877 The Doctor's Wife 20 

878 Only a Clod 20 

879 Sir .Fasper's Tenant 20 

880 Lady's Mile 90 

8jsI Birds of Prey 20 

882 Charlotte’s inheritance 20 

883 R.upert Godwin 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

887 A Strange World -20 

888 Mount Rovnl 20 

889 Just As I Arn 20 

890 Dead Men's Shoes 20 

892 Hostages to Fortune 20 

893 Fenton’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloven Foot 2U 


LOVELl/S LIBRARY, 


BY ELIZABETH BARRETT ! 
BROWNING 

421 Auroi’aLeigh 20 

4VJ Poems ^5 j 

BY ROBERT BROWNING ' 

652 Selections from Poetical Works 20 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

443 Poems 20 


BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 


318 The New Abelard 20 

096 The Master of the Mine 10 I 

BY JOHN BUNYAN 

200 The Pilgrim’s Progress 20 

BY ROBERT BURYS 

430 Poems 20 

BY REV. JAS. S. BUSH 

113j More Words about the Pnble 20 

"by e. lasseter bynner 

100 Nimport, 2 Parts, each 15 

11“^ Tritons, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 

626 Poems 20 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Ad ventures 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass. 20 

BY THOMAS CARLYLE 

486 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

600 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beaii 20 

603 Chartism 20 

608 Sartor Resartus 20 

614 Early Kings of Norway 20 

620 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

622 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . .10 

625 Life of Heyne 15 

628 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

641 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

646 Signs of the Times 15 

650 German Literature 15 

601 Portraits of John Knox. . . . ; 15 

671 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

678 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

680 “ “ “ Vol. II 20 

691 “ “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

610 “ “ “ Vol. IV 20 

619 “ “ “ Vol. V 20 

622 “ “ “ Vol. VI 20 

626 “ “ “ Vol. Vrr 20: 

628 “ “ “ Vol. VIII 20 I 

630 Life of John Sterling 20 j 

633 Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

636 Ijfe of Schiller .20 ^ 

613 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 I 

646 “ “ Vol. II 25 I 

649 “ “ Vol. Ill 25 


652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 
658 Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

661 Dr. Francia and other Es.says 15 

1088 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, I 

2 Parts, each 20 I 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels 20 ! 


3 


BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 


6(fJ For Lilias 2C 

911 Nut Like other Girls .20 

912 Robert Oni’s Atonement 20 

‘.159 Wee W-ie 20 

960 Wooed and Married 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

190 Willy Reilly 20 

820 Shane Fadii’s Wedding 10 

821 Larry McFai land’s Wake 10 

822 The Party Fig) t and Funeral 10 

823 The Midnight Mass 10 

824 PhilPnrcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Maynooth 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 Neal Malone . .^ 10 

BY “ CAVENDISH ” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

417 Don Quixote 30 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 

BY VICTOR CHERBULIEZ 

242 Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLAEK 

167 Anti-Slavery Daj's 20 

BY CRISTABEL R. COLERIDGE 

1028 A Near Relation 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

523 Poems 80 

BY J. FENIMORE COOPER 

6 The Last of the Mohicans 2G 

53 The Spy 20 

365 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found ^ 

463 The Deerslayer 30 

467 T he Prairie 20 

471 The Pion eer 25 

484 The Two AaJmirals 20 

4SS The Water Witch 20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

.506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 W yan dotte 20 

51 7 Heiden mauer 20 

519 The Headsman 20 

.524 The Bravo 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln 20 

529 Wept of Wish-ton-Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

.539 Miles Wallingford 20 

543 The Monikins 20 

548 Mercedes of Castile 20 

.5.53 The Sea Lions 20 

5.59 The Crater 20 

562 Oak Oi^enings 20 

570 Satanstoe 20 

576 The Chain-Bearer 20 

587 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 2i 

611 Jack Tier 80 


LOVELL’S 

BY BERTHA M. OLAY 


183 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

277 Dora Thorne 20 

287 Beyond Pardon 20 

420 A Broken Wedding-Ring ... 20 

423 Repented at Leisure 20 

458 Sunshine and Roses 20 

405 The Earl's Atonement 20 

474 A Woman's Temptation 20 

476 Love W orks Wonders w . 20 

658 Fair but False 10 

603 Between Two Sins 10 

651 At War with Herself 15 

600 Hilda 10 

6S0 Her Martyrdom 20 

602 Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

694 The Shadow of a Sin , 10 

305 Wedde<i and Parted lO 

700 In Cupid’s Net 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

718 A Gilded Sin 10 

720 Between Two Loves 20 

727 For Another’s Sin 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl 20 

733 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

738 A Golden Dawn 10 

730 Like no Other Love 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement 20 

714 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

762 Set in Diamonds 20 

764 A Fair Mystery 20 

8U0 Th rns and Orange Blossoms 10 

8C1 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

803 Love's Warfare 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover 20 

806 From Out the Gloom 20 

807 Wliich Loved Him Best 10 

803 A True Magdalen 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

811 A Golden Heart .... 10 

812 Wife in Name Only 20 

815 A Woman’s Error 20 

806 Marjorie 20 

922 A Wilful Maid 20 

92^1 Lady Castleniaine’s Divorce 20 

9.26 Claribel's Love Story 20 

928 Thrown on the World 20 

929 Under a Shadow 20 

930 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

932 Hilary’s Folly 20 

9?j3 a Haunted Life 20 

934 A Woman’s Love Story 20 

969 A Woman’s War 20 

984 'Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

985 Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

986 Belle of Lynn 20 

9S8 Marjorie's Fate 20 

989 Sweet Cymbeline 20 

1007 Redeemed by Love 20 

1012 The Squire's Darling 10 

1013 The Mystery of Colde Fell 20 

1030 On Her Wedding Morn 10 

1031 The Shattered Idol 10 

1033 Letty Leigh ....10 

1041 The Mystery of the Holly Tree 10 

1042 The Earl’s Error 10 

1043 Arnold's Pr* mise 10 

1051 An Unnatural Bondage 10 

1064 The Duke's Secret 20 


LIBRARY. 


BY WILKIE COLLINS 

8 The Moonstone, Part 1 16 

9 The Moonstone^ Part II 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 Heart and Science 20 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

683 The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money 1^ 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River IJ 

957 The Dead Secret 20 

9% The Queen of Hearts 20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 1C 

462 Dark Days 16 

612 Carriston’s Gift. ... 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair. 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor ,.10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin.... ....20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

750 Somebody’s Story 10 

1>68 Bound by a Spell 20 

BY C. H. W COOK 

1099 The True Solution of the Labor 
Question 10 

BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance 26 

BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People 20 

BY R. CRISWELL 

350 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DATJDET 

478 Tartariii of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The No bob . 25 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DEBANS 

475 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE < 

428 Robinson Crusoe 2# 


LOVELL’S LIBKARY. 


BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 

' 80 The Spanish Nun 10 

1H)70 Confessions of an English Opium 
Eater 20 

BY CARL DETLEF 

Irene; or, The Lonely ilanor 20 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

Oliver Twist 20 

A Tale of Two Cities 20 

Child’s lIistoi 7 of England 20 

Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

The Cricket on the lieartli 10 

Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each... 15 

Barnaby lludge, 2 I'arts, each 15 

David Copperfield, 2 Parte, each. . . .20 

Hard Time.s 20 

Great E.vpectations 20 

Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parte, each. ...20 

American Notes 20 

Dombey and Son, 2 Parte, each 20 

Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each. 20 

Our Mutual Friend. 2 Parte, each... 20 

Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parte, each 20 

Pictures from Italy 15 

The Boy at Mugby 10 

Bleak House, 2 Parte, each 20 

Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

Master Humphrey's Clock 10 

The Haunted House, etc 10 

The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

Sketches by Boz. 20 

A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

Uncommercial Traveller 20 

Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

The Battle of Life, etc 10 

Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

Rei)rinled Pieces 20 

No Thorough faro 15 

Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 


29 

10 

38 

75 

91 

140 

144 

150 

158 

170 

192 

201 

210 

219 

223 

228 

231 

234 

237 

244 

240 

201 

207 

270 

273 

274 
282 
288 
29:3 

297 

298 
302 
437 

404 

498 

58 

70 

78 

80 

90 

92 

120 

132 

102 

108 

234 

451 

477 

630 

018 

621 

624 

721 

735 

737 

792 

802 

1005 

1972 


BY PROF. DOWLEN 

Life of Southey 10 

BY JOHN DRYDEN 

Poems 30 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

Portia 20 

Molly Bawn 20 

Phyllis. 20 

Monica 10 

Jfrs. Geoffrey 20 

Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

Moonshine and M.argnerites 10 

Faith and Unfaith 20 

Beauty’s Daughters 20 

Rossinoyne 20 

Doris 20 

A Week in Killarncy 10 

In Durance Vile 10 

Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O Tender 

Dolores” 20 

A Maiden all Forloim 10 

A Passive Crime 10 

Lady Branksmere 20 

A Mental Strnegle 20 

The Haunted Chamber .10 

Her Week's Amusement 10 

Lady Valworth's Diamond.s 20 

A Modern Circe 20 

The Duchess 20 


BY F. DU BOISGOBEY 

1018 The Condemned Door 21 

1080 The Blue Veil; or, The Crime of 

the Tower 26 

1120 The Matapaii Affair 20 

BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 

992 Camille 10 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

'lol Count of M(;nto Critto, Fart 1 20 

701 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cnsto. Pait I. . . .20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II.. .20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife 20 

891 CouTitess of Monte ('r'sto, Part I... 20 
891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part II.., 20 
998 Beau Tancrede 20 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 

681 A Girton Girl 20 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

203 Disarmed 15 

663 The Flower of Doom 10 

1C05 Next of Kin 20 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

56 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each 15 

69 A mos Bai*ton 10 

71 Silas Marncr 10 

79 Romola, 2 Parts, each 15 

1 49 Janet’s Ropentauce 10 

151 Felix Holt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poems2i) 

207 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each. 16 

208 Brother Jacob, 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book 20 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays 20 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY ' 

348 Bnnyan, by J. A. Fronde 10 

407 Burke, by John Morlcy 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Xichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward Hr 

424 Cowper, by Gold win Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison. 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Lo.-lie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Po])e, bv Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton .. ..10 

361 ‘Shelley, by J. Symonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden. ...16 

431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. Paul's. . 10 
344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollo 4 > 6 . .,10 
110 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 


BY B. L. FAEJEON 

B43 Gnutrau; or, Ilouao of Wiriu; Shad- 


<;\V8 v’u 

<j5l Love's Harvest 

874 Nine oi: Hearts 20 

BY HAEKIET FAFLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY F. W. FAEEAE, B.D. 

19 Seekers af tc r God 20 

61) Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY GEOEGE MANNVILLE FENIT 

1004 This .Man's Wife 20 

1060 The Bat? of Diamonds 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Young Man. ... 10 

BY MES. FOEEESTER 

760 Fair Women . .20 

818 Once Again 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 MvHero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitas 10 

861 Diana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona 20 

864 Roy and Viola 20 

865 June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

867 A Young Man’s Fancy 20 

BY FEIEDEICH. BAEON DE LA 
MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FEANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FROUDE 

348 Life of Buiiyan 10 

BY EMILE GAEORIAU 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

216 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money. 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orel val 20 

161 I’romise of Marriage 10 

258 File No 113 20 

1119 The Little Old Man of the Bati- 

gnolles. 20 

1123 The Count’s Millions, Part 20 

“ » Part II 20 


BY HENRY GEORGE 

5'2 Progress and Poverty 2l 

O'.iO Laud Questii 111 10 

.■V.).’J B.ichd I'rohh-ms , ,.20 

71)6 Property in Land ■ .1?/ 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golde 1 Shaft 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe's Faust 20 

313 Goethe's Poem s 20 

1088 Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, 

2 Parts, each . 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister's Travels 20 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 

lOlG Taras Builni 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

51 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and i’oems 20 

BY MRS. GORE . 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 26 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Desjiatch. .20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE 

ICOl Frankley 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 


THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Talcs. Illustrated 20 

BY LAURENCE GKONLUND 

1096 The Co-operative Commonwealth. .30 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the iMormons 15 

BY F. V/. HACKLANDER 

606 Forbidden Fruit 20 


BY ERNST HAECKEL 


97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch's Head 20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain i'O 

1100 Tale of Three Lions lO 


BY A. JIGMCNT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’ Abb'! Constantin 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

<1.56 The Wobdhmders 20 

964 Far from the .Maddine Crowd 20 

BY MARION HARLAND 
107 Housekeeping and HomemaLing. . . .16 


l.OV kill’s LIRllAKY. 


BY JOHN HAREISON AND M. 


COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

26!) One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20 

137 Ornel Loudon 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

j376 Grandfather's Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

46R Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

690 Old Myddleton’s Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nora's Love Test 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

973 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

976 Back to the Old Home 10 

976 For Her Dear Sake 20 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

978 Victor and Vanquished 20 

1029 Brenda Yorke 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

53-3 Poems 80 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

633 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 

ism 16 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

611 Poems... .30 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

970 Against Her Will 20 

993 The Child Wife 10 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

634 Papa’s Own Girl * 30 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND ] 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

753 “ “ Partin 10 

762 “ “ Part IV 10 

765 “ “ PartV 10 

774 “ “ Part VI 10 

778 “ ‘ Part VTI 10 

782 “ “ Part VIII 10 

785 “ Part IX 10 

788 “ ■» PartX 10 

791 “ “ Part XI 10 

795 “ “ Part XII.... 10 


BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D- 


535 Studies in Civil Service 18 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

01 Tom Biowii'a School Days 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 rarts,eatf * 1 . 16 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

784 Les Miserables, Part 1 20 

784 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyke Papers ..20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

3G4 Life of Scott 20 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

369 Life of Hume 10 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

147 The Sketch Book 20 

198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbiis, 

Part 11 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey . . .10 

236 Knickerbocker History of New York.20 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Bracebridgc Hall 20 

290 Sal raagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Prairies 10 

308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Boost and Miscellanies .... 10 

BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A Modern Midas 26 

BY JOHN KEATS 

631 Poems 26 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 16 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each. 16 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

.39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

7.31 Leighton Court .20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 30 


LOT ELI As 


BY W. H. 0. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 20 

822 &1 ark Seaworth 20 

824 Round the World 2(1 

Jd 3.) The Young Foresters 20 

3-‘57 Saltwater 20 

&i3 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog (ie chien ctor) 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

44.5 The Rival Doctors .20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 .V Ih'iKhton Night .20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s I.ove 25 

741 Lorimcr .and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

707 Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of tlie Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY ClARLES LEVER 

3'27 Harrv Lorrecpier 20 

789 Cliaries O’Malley. 2 Parts, c!i4*i 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each.. 20 

BY H. W LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre- Mcr 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

Ifil The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory 0\More 20 

849 Handy Andy 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

n The Coming Race 10 

l-> Leila 10 

.31 F.rncst Maltravers 20 

82 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alice : A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

69 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanonl 20 

SI Nitrht and Morning, 2 Parts, each.. 15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons .10 

128 Money 10 

1.52 Richelieu 1C 

160 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 I’elham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Keuelm Chillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

217 Deverenx 20 

^50 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucreria 20 

2.55 Last of the Barons. 2 Parts, each . . .15 

2.59 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, -3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold. 2 Parts, each 15 

2.59 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrim.s of the Rhine 1.5 

317 Pauaanias a 


LIBRARY. 

BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 


ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . 26 

BY MRS. 11. LOVETT-CAMERON 

927 Pure Gold 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 23 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashe.s 20 

BY EDNA LYALL 

962 KnightS'Errant 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stew.art 20 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY KATHERINE S. MACQUOID 

898 Joan Wentworth 20 

BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Maai’selle's Secret 20 

1053 Gold Elsie 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 

903 The Master Passion 20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment ..10 

905 Her Lord and Ma.ster 20 

906 My Own Child §0 

907 No Intentions 20 

908 Written in Fire 20 

909 A Little Stepson 10 

910 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

931 Why Not? 21 

9.37 My Si-ster the Actress 20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary 10 

939 Girls of Feversham 20 

940 The Root of all Evil 20 

942 Facing the Footlights 20 

943 Potronel 20 

944 A Star and a Heart 10 

945 Ange 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

947 The Poison of Asps 1# 

948 Fair-Haired Alda 20 

949 The Heir Presumptive 20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses 20 

951 Heart of Jane Warner 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Parti 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Part II 20 

9.53 Phyllida 20 

954 Out of His Reckoning 10 

979 Her World against a Lie 20 

990 Open Sesame 20 

991 Mad Dumaresq 20 

999 Fighting the Air 20 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

1046 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rj’e 20 

1047 .Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

1048 Story of a Sin 2(1 

1049 Cherry Ripe 20 

1050 My Laly Green Sleeves 26 


8 


LOVELl/s LIIMiART. 


BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 


146 Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, each 15 ! 

359 Lady of the Lake, with Notes. .... .20 

‘IS!) Bride of Lammermoor 20 

4iK) Black Dwarf 10 | 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 ! 

4‘.)3 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter .10 

499 Heart of Mid-Lothian 30 

502 Waverley <20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

615 The Pirate 20 

.53() Poetical Works 40 

5 14 Redgainitlet ,25 

551 Woodstock 20 

657 Count Hubert of Paris 20 

569 The Abbot ....20 

575 Quentin Durward ........ 20 

581 The Talisman .20 

5S(i St. Ronan’s Well .20 

595 Anne of Geierstein ,20 

005 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

007 Chronicles of the Canongate. 15 

009 The Monastery 20 

020 Guy Mannering ........ 20 

025 Tvenilworth 25 

029 The Antiquary 20 

032 Rob Roy 20 

' >35 Th e Betrothed 20 

033 Pair Maid of Perth. 20 

041 Old Mortality 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 T’leurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

H34 Li fe of Burns 10 


BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

.5 Fiaukenstein .10 


BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

B49 Complete Poetical Works 30 

BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Nautz Family 20 

BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE 

8.32 Sir Percival 10 


BY EDITH SIMCOX 

513 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 


640 

The Partisan 

SO 

613 

Meliicharape 

. .. 30 

<m3 

The Yemassee 


657 

Katherine Walton 


6'''2 

Southward Ho 1 


671 

The Scout 

....30 

674 

The Wigwam and Cabin 

...,>30 

67 7 

Vasconselos 


(h 0 

Confession 

. .. 30 

6^ ( 

Woodcraft. . . 


6t:r 

Richard Hnrdis 


69) 

Guy Rivers 


69! 

I’oi iler Bca.gles 


697 

The Forayers 


702 

Gharlemont 


703 



70.’) 

Bci'ncham])e 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 


125 

Haunted Ilearta , 

BY A. P. SINNETT 

...,1J 

924 

Karma 

26 


BY HAWLEY SMART 

7S0 Bad tolkiat H 

1103 Saddle and SabJC 2C 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

425 Self-Help 25 

BY A. SMITH 

594 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

110 Fal.'se Hopes ...15 

424 Life of Cowper ..,,10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma ...15 

BY S. M. SMUCKEB 

248 Life of Webster, 2 Parts, each .. ..15 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana . 20 

BY STARKWEATHER AND ^ 
WILSON 

461 Socialism 10 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY STEPNIAK 

173 Undergi'ound Rus.sia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

167 Kidnapped 20 

768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hyde 10 

769 Prince Otto 10 

770 3'he Dynamiter. 20 

793 New Arabian Nights. .. 20 

819 Treasure Island 20 

921 The Merry Men 20 

1102 The Misadventures of John Nich- 
olson 10 

BY HESBA STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out 20 

BY JULIAN STURGIS 

1062 Dick’s Wandering 20 

BY EUGENE SUE 

772 Sfyst cries of Paris, 2 Parts, oach . . .20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 

BY DEAN- SWIFT 

68 GullivePs Travels 9C 

BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURNE 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 Life of Shelley 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Tainc's English Literature 40 

BY NIKOLAI V. TCHERNUISH- 
COSKY 

1071 A Vital Question .30 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

4 {(> Poems 40 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 

21 The Green Mountain Boys 2(1 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

94 IVmpest Tossed, Part I. . 20 

94 Temjicst Tossed, Part II 20 


11 




BY w. M. THACKEKAY 


141 Henry Esmond 20 

143 Denis Duval 20 

14S Catherine 10 

150 Lovel, the Widower 10 

104 Barry Lyndon 20 

172 Yanitv Fair 30 

103 History of I’endennis, 2Purts. each. .20 

211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 

220 Book of Snobs 10 

229 Paris Sketches 20 

235 Adventures of Philip, 2 Parts, each ..15 

2^18 The Vir^rinians, 2 Parts, each 20 

262 Criticiil Reviews, etc 10 

250 Ea.stern Sketches 10 

202 Fatal Boots, etc 10 

264 The Four Georges 10 

280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

283 Roundabout Papers 20 

285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc lO 

280 Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

290 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christmas Books. 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers 10 

309 Sketches and Travels in London 10 

313 English Humorists 15 

31G Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

320 The Rose and the Ring 10 

BY COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI 

1110 My Husband and 1 10 

1113 Polikouchka lO 

1124 Two Generations 10 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, 
each 15 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollopc.20 

344 Life of Thackeray 10 

367 An Old Man’s Love 15 

BY F. A. TUPPER 

895 Moonshine 20 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

408 The Count of Talavera 20 

BY JULES VERNE 

34 800 I^eagues on the Amazon 10 

35 The Cryptogram 10 

154 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. .20 

166 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea 20 

185 The Mj’sterions Island, 3 Parts, each. 15 

BY QUEEN VICTORIA 

365 More Leaves 1 rom a Life in the High- 
lands 15 

BY VIRGIL 

SlO Poems 25 

BY L. B. WALFORD 

10.5.5 Mr. Smith 20 

1('56 The History of a Week 10 

1057 The Babj'’B Grandmother 20 

1058 Troublesome Daughter 20 

1059 Cousins 20 

BY GEORGE WALKER 

13 The Three Spaniards 20 

BY SAMUEL WARREN 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, Part [ 20 

Pavtll 20 


Part III .,..20 


BY PROF. A. W. WARD 

413 Life of Ciiaucer id 

BY F. WARDEN 

767 Doris’ Fortune RJ 

980 At the World’s Merej' .10 

981 The House on the Marsh 20 

982 Deldec 20 

9S3 A Prince of Darkness 20 

1073 Scheherazade 20 

BY DESHLER WELCH 

427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

BY E. WERNER ; 

614 At a High Price 20 

734 Vineta 20 

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD 

54 East Lynne 20 

902 The Mystery 20 

1093 Lady Grace 20 

BY MRS. WHITCHER 

194 Widow Bedott Papers 20 

BY J. G. WHITTIER 

450 Poems 20 

BY VIOLET WHYTE 

963 Her Johnnie. 20 

BY W. M. WILLIAMS 

80 Science in Short Chapters 20 

BY N. P. WILLIS 

352 Poems .20 

BY C. F. WINGATE 

830 Twilight Club Tracts 20 

BY EDMUND YATES 

723 Running the Gauntlet 20 

724 Broken to Harness ^ 

BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 

858 A Modern Telemachus 20 

899 Love and Life 20 

BY ERNEST A. YOUNG 

666 Barbara's Rival 20 

691 A Woman's Honor 20 

MISCELLANEOUS 

26 Life of Washington. 20 

37 Paul and Virginia 10 

47 Bai'on Mnnehansen 10 

63 The Vendetta, bj’ Palzac 20 

66 Margaret and her Bridesmaids 20 

72 Queen of the County 20 

98 The Gypsy Queen 20 

1 1 8 A New Lease of Life 20 

169 Beyond the Sunrise 20 

181 Whist, or Bumblepnppy? 10 

360 Modern Christianity a Civilized 

Heathenism 15 

265 rintarch’s Lives. 5 Pai-ts, each 20 

291 Famous Funny Fellows ...20 

323 Life of Paul J ones 20 

332 Every-Day Cook-Book 20 

310 Clayton’s Rangers 20 

385 Swiss Familv Robinson 20 

386 Childhood of the World 10 

397 Arabian Nights' Entertainments 25 

402 How He Reached the White House. 25 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typh nines Abbey 25 

483 Tlie Child Hunters 15 

857 A Wilful Young Woman 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess 20 

967 The Three Bummers 20 

1019 Sceur Louise 20 


LATEST ISSUES 


106G Au Amtirlcan Journey, by Avellng.SO 
10'»7 fieo drey Mo acton, by S. Mco(lie..30 

lOiS Flora Lyndsay, by S. Hoodie 20 

1039 T.ie \Vaite Scalper, by G. Aimard.ia 

1070 Coafeasioas of an English Opiuiu 

Eater, by Thomas de Q,uincey...20 

1071 Gai le of the Desert, by Aimaid..l0 

1072 “ Tae Dachess, ” by The Duchess.20 

1073 Scheherazade, by F. Warden 20 

1074 Roaghiag It in the Bush, by Su- 

sanna Moodle. 20 

1075 Toe Insurgent Chief, by Almard. .10 

1076 Life in the Backwoods, by Moodie.20 

1077 Jim, the Parson, by E. B.Benjamin 20 
1073 Tax the Area, by Kemper Bocock. 20 
1079 The Plying Horseman, by Aimard.lO 
1090 Tile Blue Veil ; or. The Crime of 

the Tower, by F. Du Boisgobey .2u 

1031 Last of the Aucas, by Ainiard lO 

1032 Strange Adventures of Lucy 

Smith, by P. C. Philips .20 

1033 As in a Looking Glass, by Philips.20 

1034 The Dean and his Daughter, by 

F. C. Philips 20 

1035 Life in the Clearings, by Hoodie.. 20 

1033 Misjourl Outlaws, by Aimard 10 

1037 Tae Frozen Pirate, by Russell. . . .20 
1083 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

PC. I., by Goethe, translated by 

Carlyle 20 

Wilhelm Melster’s Apprenticeship, 
Pt. II., by Goethe, translated by 
Carlyle 20 

1089 Prairie Flower, by Aimard 10 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels, by 

Goethe, translated by Carlyle 20 

1091 Qreen Hortense, by L. Muhlbach.30 

1092 Milton’s Poems C5 

1093 La ly Grace, by Mrs. Henry Wood. 20 

1094 Tae New Republic, by Schellhous.30 

1095 Prom the Other Side, by Notley. . .20 
^098 The Co-operative Commonwealth, 

■ by Laurence Gronlund 30 

7)7 Jack and Three Jills, by Philips.... 20 

>>3 Indian Scout, by Aimard 10 

True Solution of the Labor Ques- 
tion, by Chas. H. W. Cook 10 

.;00 A Tale of Three Lions,by Haggard. 10 

,101 Stroaghand, by Aimard 10 

tj02 The Misadventures of John Nich- 
olson, byR. L. Stevenson 10 


1100 Saddle and Sabre, by Smart 28 

1104 Bee Hunters, by Gustave Aimard . 10 

1105 Mona’s Choice, by Mrs. Alexaader.20 

1106 Jessie,by author Addie's Husband.20 

1107 Stoneheart, by Gustave Aimard.. 10 

1108 Roilin’s Ancient History, Vol. I.. .20 
11C9 Katharine Regina, by W. Besant .20 

1110 My Husband and I, by Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 10 

1111 Roilin’s Ancient History, Vol. 11. .20 

1112 Queen of the Savannah, by Gus- 

tave Aimard 10 

1113 Polikouchka, by Count Lyof Tol- 

stoi ..10 

1114 Eolliu’s Ancient History, Vol. III.. 20 

1115 The Buccaneer Chief, by Gustave 

Aimard 10 

1116 One Traveller Returns, by David 

Christie Murray 20 

1117 Rolliu’s Ancient History, Vol. IV. .20 

1118 The Smuggler Hero, by G. Aimard. 10 

1119 The Little Old Man of the Batig- 

nolles, by E. Gaboriau 20 

1120 The Matapan Affair, by P. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

1121 The Rebel Chief, by G. Aimard. ..10 

1122 Rollin's Ancient Historv, Vol. V. . . 20 

1123 The Count’s Millions, Part I., by 

E. Gaboiiau 20 

The Count’s Millions, Part 11., by 
E. Gaboriau 20 

1124 Two Generations, by Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 10 

1125 Roilin’s Ancient History, Vol. VI. .20 

1126 A House of Tears, by E. Downey. .20 

1127 The Gold Seekers, by G. Aimard". . 10 

1128 Roilin’s Ancient History,Vol.VIl. 20 

1129 Story of Antony Grace, by Feun...20 

1130 Lieutenant Barnabas, by Barrett 20 

1131 Roilin’s Ancient History ,Vol.VIII.20 

1132 One Maid’s Mischief, by Fenn 20 

1133 Indian Chief, by G. Aimard lO 

1134 The Nun’s Curse, by Mrs. Riddell. 20 

1135 A Prince of tbe Blood, by Payn. .‘20 

1136 Marvel, by “The Duchess” 20 

1137 The Twin Soul, by Chas. Mackay.20 

1138 Red Track, by Gustave Aimard... 10 

1139 A Modern Magician, by Malloy. . .20 

1140 Only the Governess, by Carey 20 

1141 A False Start, by Hawley Smart.. 20 

1142 A Life Interest, by Alexander 20 


Dealers can always obtain complete Catalogues with imprint, for free distribu- 
Uou, on application to the Publishers,. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COJrPANT, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York^ 




A MODERN MAGICIAN 


J. F. MALLOY 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 AND 10 Vksey Street 


LOVELL LlBKARY ADVEBTLSELC. 

Three Wonderful Sewing Machines. 

THE HEHf S/HSEH 

■ AUTOMATIC 

“ It runs with a breath.” 

A ^ 

THE NEW SINGER 

VIBRATOR 

Most Modern, Lightest Running, and 
Simplest of Sewing Machines. 

NEW SINOER 

OSCILLATOR 

“Scientifically and Mechanically Perfect.” 

OFFICES EVERYWHERE. PERFECTION GUARANTEED. 





- — THE — 

SINGER MANUFACTURING COMPANY, NEW YORK. 

(Makers of Etfirht Million Machines.) 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


CHAPTER L 

THE DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Mrs. Hexry Netley sat in the drawing-room of her 
house, situated at Palace Gardens, Kensington, waiting 
to receive her gueils. Her receptions were famous by 
reason of the mag: >l jence which marked and the dis- 
tinguished persons that attended them, for Mrs. Ketley 
was a woman of wealth, aspiring to fa;shion. 

With the mystery obscuring her early career, no 
man, and stranger yet, no woman was acquainted. It 
was merely known the late Mr. Netley, having amassed 
a fortune in trade, set an example to all husbands' by 
taking himself to another sphere, leaving his wife the 
uncontrolled enjoyment of his wealth. Mrs. Netley 
resolved to profit by his consideration and generosity. 
A woman of perception, she was aware money purchased 
most things worth possessing; a person of taste, she 
resolved on entering society. The difficulties besetting 
her path in this direction at first were many ; but her 
courage was firm and her will determined. Fortu- 
nately, nature had in a measure equipped her for the 
fight. Her education had not been wholly neglected 
in the past, nor had she failed to read fiction dealing 
with motley groups whirling in the artificially-lit circle 
known as society ; through which pursuit her mind had 


A MOi)EKK AGICIAN,' 


M 

in a measure become attuned to its ways. Moreover, 
being quick to observe, slie was apt to learn, and pos- 
sessing tact, was capable of rising to the altitude of her 
surroundings should they bear her higher and higher 
in the social scale. 

Happily, she was free from encumbrances with the 
exception of her husband’s niece, who, having from her 
earliest years been educated at a fashionable school, 
was now a considerable help rather than a social 
hindrance. 

Having taken a house at Palace Gardens, furnished 
it regardless of expense, stocked its cellars with excel- 
lent wines, and secured the services of a chef, to whom 
she allowed a salary exceeding the income of many a 
German prince, she knew herself to hold trump cards, 
able, if played judiciously, to win the game for which 
she ventured. Mrs. Henry Netley waited in readiness 
for many weeks to receive society ; but beyond the 
calls after business hours of her banker and his robust 
lady clad in rustling silks, her solicitor, his frigid sister, 
and a saintly young curate with white hands and large 
feet, visitors she had none. The current had not yet 
set which was to bear her onwards towards the coveted 
haven of fashion. 

It happened about this time a great wail of human 
misery rose in the east end of London, and travelling 
westwards, struck upon the ears of certain matrons, who 
possessing the precious gifts of wisdom and charity, 
immediately resolved to organize a bazaar, that they 
might have an opportunity of publicly exhibiting their 
marriageable daughters and of relieving the starving 
poor. Having the cause of mercy deeply at heart, it 
was resolved this fancy fair should be established 
regardless of expense ; the scene must resemble Vaux- 
ball Gardens in their palmy days ; the ministering 
angels to whose care stalls were allotted should dress 


THE DHAMATJS PEHSOX^. 

ita the becoming costumes of the last century. To. 
relieve bitter hunger in such a charming manner is an 
achievement worthy of modern civilization. 

Now amongst those solicited by a committee of ladies 
to contribute towards the bazaar was Mrs. Henry 
Netley. Her donation equalled her good-nature. The 
committee, having just called on the Duchess of 
Bloomsbury, and received her grace’s contribution of 
hiilf-a-crown from the hands of her butler, were in a 
frame of mind to appreciate Mrs. Netley’s generosity. 
I'hey immediately asked her to become one of the com- 
mittee. The offer was accepted with gratitude, and 
her name subsequently figured in society papers in 
such company as made the good wroman’s heart beat in 
her ample breast with pride and rejoicement. 

P>om this time forward, Mrs. Henry Netley saw 
many visitors, and frequently visited in return. She 
established a weekly reception-day, gave excellent 
dinners, patronized art, and was seen in the stalls on 
first nights at west-end theatres. 

To be sure Mrs. Netley’s female friends, with that 
sweet compassion which fills women’s breast towards 
those of their sex whose wealth, position, or gifts 
exceed their own, pitied her exceedingly. The spinster 
whose sister had married a baronet’s cousin ; the 
military widow, whose husband would have been a 
general had he lived ; the bishop’s daughter from over 
the way, congratulated themselves on their Christian 
humility in recognizing her in public. True, these 
worthy women invariably craned their necks and 
assumed their sweetest smiles, in expectation of a nod, 
at the approach of Lady Messalina, whom they knew 
to be one of the vilest of her sex. But then her lady- 
ship,- suiting herself to the times, lives on excellent 
terms with her husband, whose bills she pays, drives in 
the family coach regularly to church on Sundays when 


4 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


in tlie country, and invariably has a bishop at her 
delightful dinners in town during the season. Poor 
Mrs. Netley was virtuous, generous, charitable, but 
plebeian, and money alone gained her tolerance in that 
section of society known as polite. What did it matter 
to her if behind her back aristocratic friends sneered 
at her as a tradesman’s widow, ridiculed her manner, 
criticized her grammar, when to her face they greeted 
her with graciousness, enjoyed her hospitalities, and 
bowed before her as the possessor of solid wealth ? 
What god ever numbered half so many worshippers as 
Mammon ? 

Triumphant to a certain extent, Mrs. Henry Netley 
was desirous of carrying her success further afield. It 
therefore came to pass that for a certain consideration 
— equalling in amount a month’s salary at a play-house 
or a year’s royalty on the sale of her photographs — a 
fashionable beauty had appeared for a quarter-of-an- 
hour at one of her receptions. With this investment 
of her money Mrs. Henry Netley was perfectly satis- 
fied ; gossiping papers announced the memorable fact 
in course of the week ; those who wished to gain Mrs. 
Netley’s good graces spoke of the fashionable beauty 
as her friend. A month later, Mrs. Netley’s portrait, 
so flattered and idealized as to bear but slight resem- 
blance to the original, was presented as a weekly sup- 
plement to a society journal as one of the leaders of 
fashion; for which advertisement she had previously 
agreed with the enterprising editor to purchase five 
hundred copies at retail price. ■ 

People now inquired who Mrs. Henry Netley was, 
and a certain set of men, frequenters of club smoking- 
rooms and west-end salons, the sharp-beaked, keen- 
scented birds of prey of the human species, replied 
indirectly she was a woman who gave capital dinners 
and kept a deuced good cellar. 


THE DRA^IATIS P.EBSQN*^. § 

To many these commendations were sufficient testi- 
mony to her social standing and good taste. In due 
course it happened one of her male acquaintance was 
anxious to meet his friend’s wife at Mrs. Netley’s 
board, and as the lady mentioned was a woman of title, 
and gracious enough to waive the usual conventional 
forms of introduction and visiting, Mrs. Netley speedily 
found herself entertaining a real countess. The mere 
enterainment was no difficult task, for her ladyship, 
not having seen her husband’s friend for several hours, 
had naturally much to say to him during and after 
dinner, so that the presence of the hostess was almost 
ignored. In return, the real countess had invited Mrs. 
Netley to a crush, and here she had encountered Lord 
Pompey Rokeway, a gay though ancient personage, who 
henceforth became the central figure of her day dreams. 

Lord Pompey was a tall wooden-figured man, erected 
on large flat feet, with limbs loosely riveted to his 
lean body. The auburn locks covering his small head 
were surprisingly brilliant of hue ; his even rows of 
white teeth looked a trifle too modern for their setting, 
whilst a certain even balaude of his upright body sug- 
gested the sustaining powers of a corset. About his 
whole appearance ho.vered a decided air of formality 
that had outlived its day. Even in a society where the 
presence of conventionality reduces individuality to the 
flat level of general mediocrity. Lord Pompey had 
managed to presei’ve his originality. His strange 
habit of giving words to his thoughts, unconscious or 
heedless of being overheard, the firm belief he held of 
the irresistible fascinations he exercised, made him 
the hero of a hundred ridiculous stories. 

The younger son of the impoverished Duke of 
Bloomsbury, Lord Pompey’s inheritance had been 
small whilst his tastes were expensive. He had there- 
fore from an early period of life been accustomed to 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


e 

exisfc on profits arising from the prestige of his name. 
Before reaching the age of thirty he had married a 
comedy actress, whose salary from the theatre he 
spent, and whose presents from her admirers he appro- 
priated; this being the tax he levied for the adver- 
tisement his name afforded her. Save where money 
was concerned, his conduct towards her was generous 
in the extreme. He seldom interfered with the liberty 
so dear to artistes, and was never so ungracious as to 
grudge the happiness her companionship afforded to 
wealthy humanity. Moreover, his manner towards 
her was characterized by an air of gallantry more 
befitting a suitor than habitual to a spouse. In many 
respects he was regarded by his wife and her ever- 
changing circle of male friends as a model husband; 
and she and he might have lived a shining example of 
connubial felicity, and died in the odour of domestic 
sanctity, had not the lady become convinced the adver- 
tisement of her alliance was too dearly paid for by loss 
of her earnings, and, anxious for a new sensation, 
eloped with her footman. 

By this event Lord Pompey lost a golden harvest 
and a gifted wife, whose charms were freely canvassed 
and universally admitted by mankind. He felt her 
loss severely ; indeed so keen was his love and so great 
his charity, he would have overlooked her indiscretion 
and received her again, had not his father, for whom 
he entertained great fear and deep reverence, com- 
manded him to sue for a divorce. 

Deprived of his income. Lord Pompey was obliged 
to supply its absence, and therefore, in return for 
certain sums, gave bubble companies the privilege of 
using his name in advertising frauds. He moreover 
permitted its appearance on the title-pages of a couple 
of novels, written by an impecunious hack for an enter- 
prising publisher. Likewise he gave testimony in the 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONAS. t 

form of letters which were publicly printed to the 
inestimable benefit arising from use of Dragonfly 
powders, Chinese shaving paste, and Dutch butterine. 
The pleasure of his company at dinner was secured by 
ambitious city men on condition of their purchasing 
particular wines he ventured to recommend and helped 
to drink, or their ordering from certain merchants 
coals for whose superiority he could vouch. Nor did 
his services to humanity end here. His experiences 
were placed at the disposal of young men about enter- 
ing life; and his exertions towards opening the doors 
of society to those anxious of passing within their 
portals, could be secured at so much a head. 

In a little while Mrs. Henry Netley and Lord 
Pompey Rokeway were excellent friends ; and he soon 
becoming aware of her ambition, undertook to gratify 
it in all. Lord Pompey was familiar with royalty, and 
had more than once proved himself useful to one de- 
scribed as an illustrious person. Some months from the 
date of his first encounter with Mrs. Netley, his lordship 
hinted he wmuld induce royalty to become her guest. 
The thought of this honour almost overwhelmed a 
soul never darkened by the shadow of socialism. In 
fulfilling his promise, Lord Pompey killed two birds 
with one stone ; for it happened at this time the 
illustrious personage was anxious to entertain a select 
circle of friends, whom for certain reasons, he found it 
impossible to receive in his own home. In this diffi- 
culty Lord Pompey found his opportunity. Mrs. 
Netley’s name was mentioned to the illustrious 
personage, her menage extolled, her coinplaisancy 
guaranteed. After some consideration, it was arranged 
the illustrious personage was to invite his select friends 
to a dinner at Mrs. Netley’s house, which she w'as not 
only graciously permitted to provide, but likewise 
allowed to attend. 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


n 

Totally ignorant of the names of her guests, she 
magnified their rank, and in her fervid imagina- 
tion considered their condescension must even equal 
their virtue. She pictured herself being taken to 
dinner by a star and a garter, and beheld herself 
subsequently sipping coffee with jewelled duchesses 
and other lovely ladies of high degree. Alas that 
imagination should exceed reality. Neither a star nor 
a garter sat down at her table. A tall young gentle- 
man, with light hair, weak legs, and a remarkable 
leer, took her down to dinner ; the jewelled duchesses 
and Other lovely ladies of high degree, whose names 
she had somehow entirely failed to catch, made her 
frigid bows, and, subsequently ignoring her presence, 
devoted themselves with great attention to her ex- 
cellent champagne and the conversation of their male 
companions. 

She found some compensation, poor soul, for her 
vast disappointment in the fact that the illustrious 
personage had warmly shaken hands with her on his 
arrival, and made her a gracious little speech whilst he 
mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. But this 
honour was not repeated, as he had left the house 
before she was aware of his departure, and had to 
accept the apologies and explanations of his having to 
attend a debate of national importance made on his 
behalf by Lord Pompey. Most of the guests, it 
appeared, had likewise not stood upon the order of 
their going, but had gone at the same time as the 
illustrious personage, they no doubt also taking keen 
interest in debates of national importance; so that 
Mrs. Net ley was soon left alone to meditate upon the 
brevity of human grandeur. However, her reward 
came in due course; for before the season ended she. 
was bidden to a great garden-party at the illustrious 
personage’s country house, where she had the honoui 


THE DHAMATIS TERSONJE. i 

of having her feet trodden upon, her portly person 
crushed, and a Parisian costume, ordered for the 
occasion, hopelessly ruined by the highest nobility 
in the land. 

The month was May, the hour was nine, and Mrs, 
Henry Netley waited to receive the aristocracy of rank 
and talent she had bidden to her home — a combination 
blending dignity and freedom, elegance and pictur- 
esqueness. With some sense of pride and pardonable 
triumph, she surveyed her surroundings, which mani- 
fested a wealth that was enormous and a taste not 
wholly due to the decorator. At the head of the great 
staircase fountains splashed and sparkled ; orange and 
lemon trees half screened the lower limbs of statuary; 
within the spacious rooms, opening one from another, 
chandeliers of wrought silver and Venetian glass de- 
pended from carved and vaulted ceilings ;• curtains of 
Persian fabric were drawn from the wide portals ; 
frescoes lined the walls ; the ensemble presented a 
dazzling scene of light and colour. 

From the contemplation of such splendour, she 
turned with increased satisfaction to survey her reflec- 
tion in a neighbouring miiTor. There she stood, a 
woman of short stature, with a well-developed chest, 
round highly-coloured face, ample chin, short nose, and 
pleasant blue eyes. But this reflection, viewed with 
those eyes, assumed virtues it lacked to less appre- 
ciative visions. The good-humoured common-place 
features assumed a placid dignity, the stunted heavy 
figure an air of grace and majesty, to their possessor. 
So is it with us all. In love with ourselves, we idealize 
our persons, and from the cradle to the grave, see them 
as they never have been, never are, nor will be, to 
other eyes. 

A slight rustle in the adjoining room fell upon Mrs. 
Netley ’s eais ; she. turned from the minor with au 


40 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


air befitting stage royalty, and met her niece. The 
matron surveyed the girl critically, as if gauging the 
market value of a picture or the merits of a statue. 
Ap})arently satished with her scrutiny she smiled 
approvingly. 

‘^Dear child,” she said, ^‘how charming you look to- 
night, these bright eyes are destined to win a coronet.” 

‘‘And why a coronet?” asked the younger woman, 
looking at her aunt with a smile, which might mean 
amusement or disdain. 

“ Because it would place you in the position to which 
your beauty entitles you, and give you all things desir- 
able.” 

“I fear you don’t believe in true hearts being more 
than coronets.” 

“ Dear Miriam, that’s but a foolish, romantic notion. 
Poets and writers are strange people, and never mean 
what they say.” 

The girl coloured, and then, as if glad to turn the 
conversation into another channel, said : 

“ If they are strange people, why ask them to your 
house ? ” 

“Because they are fashionable just now. AVe must 
have them at our gatherings as we must have Indian 
jars in our rooms, whether we like them or not. 
^Estheticism has gone out, clever people have come in. 
One meets them everywhere in society.” 

“ So much the better for society,” said JMiriam, 
slightly tossing her head backwards. 

“ Besides,” continued Mrs. Netley with a complacent 
smile, “ they are useful in their way. Through them 
one learns what pictures are worth seeing, v/hat novel 
is worth reading, what song one should admire, the 
name of the next Lyceum revival, in fact all one should 
speak of unless one would be considered an ignoramus. 
Yes, they are decidedly useful ! ” • 


THE DRAMATIS PERSON.^ 


It 


“I think,” said Aliiiinn, the colour deepening on her 
face, “if your literary friends heard you, they would 
not feel flattered.” 

“ You speak in general terms but I know you refer 
to Philip Amerton,” said Mrs. Netley with an air of 
shrewdness. Receiving no answer she continued, “I 
fear you think too much of Mr. Amerton. Now one 
word, child, before our guests arrive ; be less friendly 
towards him and more civil to Colonel Tarbcrt, and you 
will please me better.” 

“ I hope I am not uncivil to any of your friends.” 

“You know what I mean. You are also aware the 
colonel admires you, and he may be an earl one day.” 

“ The consideration does not influence me,” her niece 
replied. 

“ You were not insensible to his attentions before 
meeting Mr. Amerton.” 

“ It’s only by comparisons we arrive at conclusions.” 

“You are incorrigible,” said the matron. The roll 
of carriages and a peal of the door-bell announced the 
arrival of guests. “ I may live,” she concluded, “ to 
see you married to a commoner.” 

“ It is quite possible,” the girl answered with a 
smile. 

Two hours later Mrs. Netley’s rooms were crowded. 
An English cabinet minister, an Austrian prince, and 
a Russian ambassador whispered state secrets under a 
palm ; near them a fashionable actress and a colonial 
bishop discussed vivisection ; whilst a gouty admiral 
and a firmous tragedian debated on the condition of the 
navy. Friends met, foes smiled on each other, intro- 
ductions were made, an Italian tenor sang. The babble 
of a hundred voices, the sound of silvery laughter, and 
the notes of stringed instruments mingled in bewilder- 
ing confusion. Mrs. Netley’s reception was a success ; 
yet a shade of uneasiness rested on her broad features, 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

I 

and her eyes were continually turned in the direction 
of the entrance door. At last a name she had long 
waited to hear sounded on her ears, and Lord Pompey 
Rokeway was announced. 

‘‘ Ah ! Lord Pompey,” said Mrs. Netley, with a sigh 
of relief, extending one hand and throwing back her 
head in an attitude she considered languishing, “ so 
glad to see you.” 

A withered smile crossed his wrinkled face. 

“ Gad ! ” he thought, giving his ideas utterance as 
was his wont ; “ always knew she was a woman of taste. 
Charming woman, too — really is, you know.” 

Mrs. Netley raised her fan to hide a smile of gratifi- 
pation she was powerless to restrain at words she Jcnew 
were not meant for her ear. 

“ I must confess,” she said, in a tone of tender con- 
fidence, “ I missed you.” 

“ So sorry — that is, so glad. Dined with a fellow in 
Pimlico; recommended him some wine; hope ’twon’t 
poison him.” 

“ You are always so considerate.” 

“Yes, so I am;” then to himself, “ Gad, she’s look- 
ing charming to-night; know shp likes me. Same with 
all women, they can’t help it, not they.” 

At that instant the bishop’s daughter, the spinster 
whose sister had married a baronet’s cousin, and the 
widow of one whose military career was blighted in its 
bud by excessive use of brandy, advanced side by side 
towards his lordship, smiling and simpering like three 
elderly graces clad in nineteenth-century costumes. 
Lord Pompey took the hand each extended to him in 
turn, bowing with a stateliness and grace that filled 
them with delight. 

“ So long since we met,” said the bishop’s daughter, 
a tall thin lady with a white face and pink eyes, 
reminding one of a rabbit. “You will remember 


13 


THE DRAMATIS PERSON^ 

perhaps I saw you last at the primate’s delightful 
garden-party.” 

“Of course,” said Lord Pompey, who had not the 
slightest recollection of the occurrence. Then he 
added, speaking to himself, “ Pretty, but faded ! ” and 
gave a little jaunty step as if this old butterfly would 
wing his flight onwards. But the widow, stout and 
florid, as becoming one who had escaped martyrdom, 
laying her finger tips on his arm and giving him an 
appealing glance, detained him. He had sold her 
husband some abominable cognac that went far towards 
shortening his days, and it may be she held Lord 
Pompey in grateful regard. In response to her simper, 
half sentimental, half sad, his lordship tittered, and 
his beautiful eyebrows rapidly ascended his forehead, 
investing his face with a curiously comic air. 

“ Dear Lord Pompey,” said the widow in a tender 
whisper, “you never come and see me now.” 

“ Gad, that’s true,” he replied. For the consump- 
tion of wine in her household was not what it had 
been, and she was no longer worthy of his attention as 
a customer. 

“ But to me you are always associated with the 
happy past,” she said. The happy past briefly described 
a period when the defunct major had sworn at her 
during dinner and flung tumblers at her head when 
the guests departed. 

“Gad, so I am,” Lord Pompey answered, adding 
voce^ “Looking better since the major died — ^poor 
devil ! — daresay she wants to marry again.” 

“ I am always at home on Thursdays ; you will come 
and see me some day ?” 

“ Delighted,” replied the old beau, who never in- 
tended to accept her invitation. 

Then the spinster, an angular lady with a Koman 
nose, spoke out, “ Shall we meet at my sister’s cousin, 


14 A MODERN MAGICUN. 

Lady Frump’s ball on Wednesday week ?” she asked, 
looking as if all her chance of future happiness lay in 
his reply. 

“ Don’t know her,” he responded. 

“ That doesn’t matter. I’ll have an invitation sent 
you. She will be so glad to make your acquaintance, 
Lord Pompey.” 

“ Wonder who this woman is ? Deuced bore wants 
to flirt with me,” he said audibly. Then added, 
“ Thank you, I shall be delighted,” and left them. 

What charming manners,” remarked the bishop’s 
daughter, as her pink eyes followed him admiringly. 

“ Yes,” said the spinster, “ such ease of manner, such 
grace.” 

“ Noblesse oblige,” added the widow. 

And the drawing-rooms of the fashionable world 
being to these good women so many temples for the 
worship of wealth and rank, they three set forward to 
seek fresh shrines and idols new. 

The while a woman young and fair sat alone in a 
curtained alcove, taking mental notes of the scene 
before her. Her pale oval face was lighted by dark 
lustrous eyes, her broad forehead crowned by masses of 
brown hair. 

The great charm of her irregular features lay in 
their expression of simplicity, thoughtfulness and 
capability of reflecting various currents of her 
mind. 

An author by profession, she was known to the 
reading world as Gal Alex, and to her friends as Louise 
Westerby. The strength of conception, conciseness of 
expression, and insight to character displayed in her 
novels, had for years caused her sex to be mistaken by 
critics of her works. Friendless since the death of her 
only relative, an aunt who had reared her, she with a 
couiage sufficiently strong to defy the world’s regard, 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


15 


had lived alone. As a bully retreating before defiance, 
society became mute when faced by her independence, 
and even in a circle whose members feed hungrily on 
the characters of their fellows, no breath of calumny 
had been whispered against her. Brilliant as a con- 
versationalist, sympathetic as a friend, her company 
was ever eagerly sought and thoroughly enjoyed. 

Bending slightly forward, one arm resting on her 
knee, one hand supporting her head, she gazed before 
her. And as she sat, Ulic Tarbert, a young man, long- 
limbed and square-shouldered, with honest blue eyes 
lighting a frank face, approached and greeted her, the 
drift of his words seeming more pleasant for the music 
of his voice. 

“ I have been looking for you,” he said, sitting 
beside her with the air of a privileged friend ; I didn’t 
know you had arrived.” 

“ I came early, and have sat here watching my 
fellow-creatures, as the monkeys at the Zoo regard 
their visitors ! ” 

‘‘How amusing it must be.” 

“ For the monkeys — yes.” 

He felt as if a discordant note had sounded in his 
ear, and was silent for some time. Presently he said, 
by way of beginning a conversation anew : 

“ What a charming woman is our hostess.” 

“ So all men declare.” 

“ And you will admit they are excellent authorities 
when the opposite sex is concerned ?” 

“ There you mistake. If you want to find a woman’s 
true character, set another woman to discover it.” 

“ On the principle of sending a thief to catch a 
thief? ” 

“ Mr. Tarbert I ” 

“ Oh I beg your pardon. I m^an your sex are 
excellent judges of each other, and never err on the 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


le 

side of leniency. But you agree with me that Mrs* 
Netley^s manners are charming ?" 

“ So are her receptions.” 

“ She has an open heart.” 

“ And keeps an open house.” 

“ I often wonder she can bear that antiquated fop, 
Lord Pompey.” 

“ Here is a man’s judgment on a man. Are you 
jealous of him ? ” 

“Nonsense; jealous of a man who might be my 
grandfather.” 

“ It’s impolite to speak of age.” 

“ Then Pebrett is terribly rude. ’Tis said Lord 
Pompey wants to marry Mrs. Netley for sake of her 
wealth, and no man should wed for money.” 

“ Save he that wants it.” 

“You are not in your usual mood to-night,” replied 
the young man, glancing at her closely, and his voice, 
full of kindness, almost brought tears to her eyes. 

“ I am playing at being merry,” she answered. 

“ And you succeed in being ironical.” 

“ Look,” she said, shrinking back into the shadow of 
the alcove, “ here comes Benoni, the modern magician.” 

“So he does,” replied Uiic Tarbert, regardless for 
the moment of his companion’s manner in his interest 
in the mystic’s appearance. 

“ Have you known him long?” 

“ For some months,” she answered in a subdued 
voice. 

“ He is reported to be an extraordinary man.” 

“ Yes ? ” she said interrogatively. 

“ ’Tis said the lives of those he approaches lie open 
before him, and he reads their minds as the pages of a 
book.” 

: “ That may account for the sadness of his face, which 
is never gladdened by a smile.” 


THE DRAMATIS PERSONS 


W 

^ You take a cynical view of humanity.” 

“ Certainly.” 

« Why ? ” he asked, looking at her almost reproach- 
fully. 

“We aU judge from the experiences of our lives.” 

A look of distress came into his face. Neither 
spoke ; both watched the mystic’s movements. 

On Benoni’s entering the room with noiseless. footfall 
and stately grace, all eyes turned towards the door, all 
voices were suddenly hushed. His appearance was no 
less notable than majestic. His delicately carved fea- 
tures, rich dusky complexion, and eyes dark as night 
and luminous as stars, presented a type of Oriental 
beauty rarely excelled. His blue-black hair, parted in 
the centre, hung upon his shoulders. His tall, lithe 
figure was clad in purple velvet reaching to his feet; 
and on his breast burned a precious s.tone of unusual 
size and exceeding brilliancy. Profound thought and 
repressed feelings gave an expression of spirituality and 
pathos to a face of singularly noble lineaments ; whilst 
his air and movements denoted a stately gravity and 
suppressed power remarkably impressive. 

As he advanced through the room laughter died, 
gossip sank to silence, and crowds parted to make clear 
his path. Some there were to whom he spoke, and his 
voice fell with delight upon their ears, as the music of 
waves upon a shore. Slow and sure as the steps of 
Fate he approached the alcove where Gal Alex and her 
companion sat ; and as he drew near them, she almost 
involuntarily placed one hand on Ulic Tarbert’s arm as 
if mutely claiming his protection. If Benoni noted 
her action, he gave no sign of his perception,, but bow- 
ing low before her, cross<^ his arms upon his breast by 
way of salutation. " 

You avoid the crush,” he said in dulcet tones. 

•^Yes; I feel rather tired, and from this nook ona 


18 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


can watch the performers without appearing in the 
play.” 

“You have no sympathies with the players?” he 
asked. 

“ Few, I fear. You know I am a worker.” 

“ Yours is the happier lot.” 

“Fm not quite sure of that. I sometimes wonder 
whether the bee or the butterfly is happier ; but I sup- 
pose one is never satisfied with one’s condition.” 

“ Sorely,” said Ulic Tarbert, “ having youth and 
fame nothing remains for you to desire.” 

“Nothing left to desire,” she repeated in a dreamy 
manner, for the moment heedless of those around her, 
“ because I have youth, a season of error, and fame, a 
bubble on life’s stream.” Then rousing herself with 
an effort she added with nervous counterfeit merriment, 
as if anxious to obliterate the effect of her last words, 
“ Yes, there is one thing more I desire, and you,^^ she 
continued, turning to Benoni, ^^you can grant it me, 
unless what I heard be false. Will you give me what 
I ask?” 

“ If I can,” he answered gravely, fixing his dark 
eyes upon her face. 

“ Thank you. I want a flower : you see I am with- 
out one. Cause a rose or a tulip to fall from the 
ceiling or spring from the ground,” she said, laughing 
as if her heart was light. 

“ Your desire is granted,” he answered, and stooping 
down he raised a tulip which lay at her feet and handed 
it to her. The dew was wet upon its petals, and look- 
ing within its cup she saw a folded slip of paper con- 
cealed. The light died suddenly from her face, as 
sunlight intercepted by cloud fades from a landscape. 
She looked up to express her wonder and saw Benoni 
mingling with the crowd at some distance. Crushing 
the xiower in her hand she put it carefully away. 


THE DEAMATIS PERSONJE. 


19 


Meanwliile pleasure waxed to its zeuith in Mrs. 
Netley’s rooms. The number of guests increased, the 
murmur of voices rose higher, the heat became great. 
In the centre of the large drawing-room Philip 
Amerton stood, heedless of those about him, replying 
to their words mechanically, glancing continually 
around in search of a familiar figure. 

“ What a shame,” said a stout matron, warm and r^d 
from fatigue of fighting her passage through the crowd, 
“every one talks while such divine music is being 
played.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” he answered. “ I always fancy 
music heard at gatherings but a harmonious back- 
ground to general conversation.” And he moved 
slowly forward, a pilgrim in search of his divinity. 

Coming to the end of a suite of rooms, he entered a 
small vestibule, now empty, and sat down to rest. His 
position afforded a view of an adjoining apartment, 
from the open window of which a flight of steps led to 
the garden. He had not rested many seconds when 
he saw a man and a woman enter this room by the 
window. The former was square built, thick limbed, 
round girted, medium sized, with grey protruding eyes, 
bronzed complexion, hair thin almost to baldness on 
the top of his head, and a red-brown, wiry moustache 
covering full lips. This was Colonel Tarbert ; Lis com- 
panion was Miriam Net ley. Some unusual restraint 
in their manner caused Amerton to observe them 
closely. Blushes covering her cheeks spoke ol con- 
fusion ; a look in his eyes indicated anger or dis- 
appointment. Without speaking, they shook hands 
and parted; he going forward to the large salon, she 
remaining by the open window. An idea flashed 
through Amerton’s mind which moved him like a 
shock. Colonel Tarbert had asked her to become his 
wife. He would have risen and joined her immedi* 


20 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


ately, had he not feared his presence would be intrusive 
at this moment. As he hesitated, a voice he recog- 
nized as Mrs. Netley’s fell upon his ears. 

“Has he proposed?” she asked hurriedly, tremu- 
lously. 

“ He has.” 

“ And you accepted ? ” 

“ I refused.” 

Philip Amerton gave a sigh of relief. 

Mrs. Netley uttered an exclamation that almost 
ended in a scream. 

“ Foolish girl,” she said in a voice choked by 
passion, 

Amerton rose, undecided as to the manner in which 
he might rriost delicately make known his presence. 
Before he could move, th(B angry rustle of Mrs.Netley’s 
garments assured him of her departure. He left the 
house. The night was bright, the sky clear, and as he 
looked upward at the throbbing stars, a sense of 
pleasure filled his heart. 


CHAPTER II. 

PHILIP AMERTON’S resolution. 

Day was done, and Philip Amerton sat alone in his 
chambers, situated in the unfashionable district of 
Bloomsbury. In stature he exceeded middle height; 
in appearance, he was lithe-limbed and dark-com- 
plexioned. His face, more picturesque than handsome, 
expressed keen perceptions, deep sympathies and fine 
sensibilities. What his life had missed or his soul had 
lost, no man might say; but ardent longing and in- 
finite regret found speech impossible to misinterpret in 


PHILIP AMERTON’S RESOLUTION. 


21 


the earnest seeking and changeless sadness of his eyes. 
His years scarce outnumbered thirty, though in seeming 
he had travelled more than half the period allotted 
mankind ; for anxious thoughts and strange experiences 
had lined his forehead with wrinkles and touched his 
hair with grey. Dreamy of aspect, yet a close observer 
would note indications of strength and power of struggle 
in the lines of his face. Circumstances requiring he 
was capable of self-sacrifice ; occasion offering he would 
.rise to heroism. 

A boyhood passed as an invalid and a youth bereft of 
domestic ties, had largely helped in developing the 
absorption and encouraging the reflection to which he 
was prone. In younger years his love for reading had 
found ample opportunities for indulgence in the repose 
necessary to his condition. Tales dealing with the 
supernatural and horrible had thrilled his imagination 
and fascinated his mind. Nor was his choice of litera- 
ture altered by the passage of time. The morbid 
fantasies of Edgar Allan Poe, the terrors of Anne Kad- 
cliffe, and the ghastliness of Catherine Crowe were 
exchanged for the mystic lore of Grerman philosophers, 
the cabalistic teachings of English medievalists, and 
the strange tenets of Eastern occultism. 

As a result of such studies, he had arrived . at certain 
convictions concerning the supernatural world and the 
influence of its inhabitants upon the affairs of mortals. 
Experiences which had been his from youth, helped his 
judgment and confirmed his belief. Sensitive to an 
unusual degree, there were times by day and night, in 
light and darkness, when he became conscious of a 
presence beside him which he could not behold. A 
slight touch on the shoulder, a cold breath on his cheek, 
a whispered word in his ear, assured him he was not 
alone. Whether the presence his finer senses recognized 
was the soul of one who had crossed death’s portal or the 


22 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


spirit of a living person attracted to him by laws of 
affinity,. he was unable to decide. 

What part his spirit, escaping from his body during 
sleep, played in the mysterious experiences of his daily 
life he was powerless to determine. From a strange 
familiarity with persons and places seen for the first 
time by his bodily sight, he argued that his soul 
“"having travelled into futurity, had already beheld them. 
To the forward flight of his freed spirit down the road- 
way of time, he likewise attributed his occasional fore- 
knowledge of events, sometimes trivial in themselves, 
frequently of importance in their results, but ever inte- 
resting as proving the existence of a power he neither 
voluntarily exercised nor wholly understood. 

A thoughtful, self-contained man, he asked himself, 
was this world but the threshold to another infinitely 
greater ; a vast, immeasurable, inconceivable space, 
whither all men from the beginning had departed ? 
And if so, was it possible those who had passed death’s 
portals ever, in obedience to the law of attraction 
governing the universe, returned to those bound to 
them by spiritual affinity or natural affection ? Other- 
wise, what were these intangible, invisible, sinewless 
things of air which at certain times and seasons sur- 
rounded him ? Had they been clothed in flesh, even 
as he himself — his personality, soul or spirit — was now ? 
Only on taking a human body had he become visible, 
tangible ; would he no longer live when the garment 
of flesh and sinew was worn to dust ? Surely, with the 
.stoppage of heart-beats the wonderful world of man’s 
'mind did not cease to exist ; and if intelligences existed 
and surrounded him, was it but his acuter perceptions, 
finer senses which enabled him, more than other men, 
to become aware of their presence ? 

Regarding such questions, he like many earnest men, 
was searching in darkness, stretching wide his hands tc 


PHILIP AMERTON'S RESOLUTION. 


grasp at facts, and finding but emptiness at every stepi 
Would a ray of light never be thrown on his path ? 
Heretofore, in answer to his inquiries, philosophy had 
given him empty words ; modern thought had proved 
to its own satisfaction that a soul and its spiritual 
perceptions were synonymous terms for a stomach and 
its physical ailments. In the dark and silent night- 
watches of his heart he had cried aloud for sunrise ; and 
science, pointing towards its dim, yellow-flamed, smoke- 
blackened, earth-lit oil-lamp, declared day had dawned. 

In his pitiful search for light, he had frequented the 
stance rooms of spiritualism, where a confused mingling 
of truth and fraud were accepted as heavenly revelations 
or regarded as vulgar entertainments. Nor had theo- 
sophy, with its unproven statements and startling 
assumptions, afforded him explanations he required. 

He had therefore placidly accepted his experiences 
without hope of divining their origin, until during a 
winter spent in Africa he had, under remarkable cir- 
cumstances, encountered Benoni. To what country or 
century the mystic belonged no man dared say. 

“ I was old,” he remarked, to Amerton, “ when your 
f country was peopled by barbarians, and yet my years 
are few.” 

The masters he served were mystics, whose individual 
lives extended over ages of time. The children of many 
nations, known in mediaeval ages as magicians, magi, 
seers, prophets, illuminati, soothsayers, wizards, wise- 
men, or enchanters, they had in a period of hostile 
criticism withdrawn themselves from the abodes of man, 
and congregJited in the desolate regions of the Hima- 
layan mountains. Here they pursued mystic lore and 
penetrated the secrets of nature. Rumour credited 
them with possessing extraorj^nary powers, compared 
with which those exercised by sorcerers during the 
dark ages were commonplace. Knowledge extending 


24 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


over many worlds dwelt with them; the elements 
became obedient to their commands ; matter yielded 
to their desires ; space vanished at their decrees. And 
their bodies, having by long and painful ordeals become 
subjected to their spirits, travelled untrammelled by 
bonds whither they desired, so that by volition each 
could manifest himself and hold converse with those 
from whom he was parted by distances immeasurable. 

To Benoni, their favourite disciple, who had dwelt 
in their service a period numbering seven times seven 
years thrice told, a share of their power had been im- 
parted, proofs of which he gave to those seeking them 
in faith and reverence. 

One evening when the African sun, a blaze of crimson 
fire, sunk beneath the weird heights of Bouzarea, Amer- 
ton resting beside Benoni on the tall grass and wild 
violets of a deserted garden overhanging the sea, opened 
his heart concerning his experiences to the mystic. 
The Mediterranean, calm as a summer lake, luminous 
as sapphire, broke with melancholy rhythm on the 
tawny sands beneath; palms stretched their broad 
•branches above them; the warm balmy odour of East- 
ern plants cli^ng round them caressingly, as waters . 
lave the limbs of a swimmer. 

Benoni listened to him with interest, but without 
surprise, as if his words merely confirmed a foregone 
conclusion. 

“ ^Vhen first we met,” he said in a low voice har- 
monizing with the splashing sea,. “I was conscious you 
.possessed certain unusual gifts; further observation 
proved rny judgment correct. As leaves of the aspen 
.'tree or reeds by the river side are stirred by faint 
dDreezes powerless to move foliage and plants of grosser 
growth, so finer organizations, respond to mystic in- 
•fluences that leave less sensitive natures untouched.” 

: Amerton heard him with fixed attention and pro- 


PHILIP AMERTON’S RESOLUTION. ^ 

foand awe. The love of mysticism that had beset him 
from boyhood was quickened to life ; vague yearnings 
for hidden knowledge became strong desires. 

“ You speak,” he said, “ of unusual gifts, what are 
they ? ” 

“ What need^ to ask me what you already know,” 
answered Benoni ; “ you can behold sights to which 
other eyes are blind ; hear words to which other ears 
are deaf ; feel the presence of beings to which- other 
natures are insensible. Fitful gleamings of another 
world flash upon your senses ; spiritual intelligences 
guide you on your way.” 

Silence fell upon them; the luminous disk of a 
crimson moon rose from the purple sea ; a few faint 
stars sprinkled the opal sky ; the air became heavy 
with the odour of marengos. 

“You hold within you,” continued the mystic, “the 
germs of a power which, trained and developed, might 
attain sway of which the world has not dreamt ; might 
fathom secrets bequeathed from prophet to sage, from 
philosopher to fakir since days when earth was young.” 

Philip Amerton’s heart thrilled with longing. His 
voice became tremulous from aniiety as he asked, 
“Shall I indeed learn these mysteries, hold these 
powers ? ” 

Benoni’s dark eyes turned on him sadly, reprovingly. 

“Patience, perseverance, fortitude are as necessary 
to the attainments you desire as the endowments you 
already possess. Before seed is sown the earth must 
be prepared. The ground- work of all occult know- 
ledge, intuition, lies in your nature ; the method of 
cultivating it is alone taught by mystic sages. Just as 
strength of intellect depends on development of the 
physical brain, so the perfection of intuition is reached 
by spiritual cultivation. When this subtle perceptive- 
ness — this sixth sense, indepenLdent and supeiioy^tP thQ 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


others — gains its highest stage, it becomes, irrespective 
of teaching or observation, impregnated with mystic 
knowledge as fruit is ripened with sunlight. But 
before this stage is gained by the neophyte much 
must be endured. Sensual love must perish in his 
heart, greed of wealth must hold no sway in his life, 
desire of fame must be banished from his dreams. All 
the world holds dear must be regarded with indiffe- 
rence ; trial and suffering must be endured with cheer- 
fulness and fortitude. For the body, with its endless 
requirements and continual passions, overpowers the 
spiritual nature, impedes search for truth, fills man’s 
heart with hopes and fears, allures him with pleasures, 
racks him with pains. Not till the body is subjugated 
can his soul acquire perfect knowledge. Without 
strife there is no victory, without victory no reward. 
The so-called Dweller of the Threshold guarding the 
wizards’ chamber — a hideous phantom of fourfold power, 
deadly to those of fearful heart, obedient to those of 
brave spirit — is but a symbol of the neophyte’s passions. 
Once overcome, entrance is gained to the store-house 
of mystic lore.” 

Philip Amerton’s ardour shrank before Benoni’s 
teaching. The sympathy and sensibility that had 
elevated and spiritualized his nature had likewise 
rendered it keenly sensitive to all the world held fair. 
The ardent hopes Benoni’s first words had wakened 
were crushed at mention of this difficult ordeal ; for of 
late the love of a woman had risen in his heart and 
would not be expelled. 

“The conditions you mention are severe,” he said, 
almost sadly. 

“ It is written, narrow is the way,” replied the mystic. 
And both were silent again for some time, whilst the 
last crimson streaks faded in the west and the moon 
rose mistress of the skies. . . . 


PHILIP AMERTON’S RESOLUTION. ST 

At length Benoni, who had been gazing out to sea, 
as if peering into the future, said, “ You are not now 
called upon to decide if you will become a neophyte and 
embrace the mystic life, as all that is spiritual within 
you desires ; or if you will remain as you are, as your 
heart suggests. The hour of trial has not yet arrived. 
When it does, you will be required to choose between 
the hope of joy and the certainty of pain ; betwixt 
illusions that seem realities and realities that appear as 
dreams. Meanwhile,” he added rising, “ go your ways : 
when to-morrow comes I shall be far from here.” 

But we shall meet again ? ” said Philip eagerly. 

Certainly we shall meet, frequently.” 

« Where?” 

‘‘In England. I shall be in your country before 
many months have passed. May peace rest with you!” 
he concluded, and bowing he turned and passed noise- 
lessly under the palm-trees. 

With the passage of time Benoni arrived in London, 
and was at his request introduced by Amerton to 
society. For a while he became a lion without whose 
presence no fashionable assembly was complete. With 
unshaken patience and subtle amusement he suffered 
the vulgar scrutiny and ignorant questionings of well- 
dressed throngs that besieged him in the spirit of a 
street mob pressing round a juggler. Many members 
of this bran-brained crowd resented the fact of his 
never striving to propagate his theories. Those who 
believed in the influences of another world upon this, 
he said, did so through intuitive recognition of truth 
rather than force of persuasive argument. Those who 
doubted must remain in darkness, being yet unfit to 
receive instruction ; no proof, however marvellous, would 
bring conviction. Scepticism could not destroy belief 
nor ignorance erase knowledge. When a man was 
.prepared to receive light it gleamed upon him; until 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


S3 

then he must dwell in chaos. Some knowledge of his 
power spreading abroad, resulted in obtaining for him 
an invitation from the Society for Scientific Cackle to 
lay bare bis philosophy before the patent electric-light 
intelligences of that learned body ; but this Benoni 
declined, and henceforth was regarded by them as an 
impostor unworthy of attention. 

During the months he remained in town, for what 
object none might say, he held many conversations 
;with Philip Amerton concerning mystic lore and occult 
power. But whilst Philip’s desires for these acquire- 
ments were keen as ever, he shrank from the ordeal to 
which a neophyte must be subjected. For love had 
taken possession of bis heart and dwelt there sole 
monarch of its desires. 

. Miriam Netley had a power to move him such as no 
-other woman had ever exercised. 

And as a sea serene in perfect calm is suddenly 
roused to action by violent winds, so his affections, 
heretofcre resting in unbroken peace, were stirred to 
their depths by her influence. Then the force of his 
nature upheaved long-buried treasures of tenderness, 
golden hopes, wealth of feeling which would have fitly 
endowed the noblest woman that had ever lived. In 
what her charm for him consisted, what affinity drew 
them together, even he was powerless to say ; but the 
subtle attraction which frequently mates those wholly 
dissimilar in all things, causing the wonder and com- 
niser^tion of interested friends, was bound to link 
thena fpr weal or woe in a common bond. For him 
love had taken up the harp of life, and in heavenly 
melodies, to which his soul listened breathlessly, sung 
of wondrous joys and untold blessings yet to come. 
Existence suddenly bloomed spring-like before him 
with happiness ; every bud put forth its promise of 
blissi the faint music of dawn foretold a rapturous day. 


PHILIP AMERTON^ RESOLUTION. 


Poet, romancer, dreamer, he idealized her with the 
fall force of his imagination. The appearance she 
presented to him, viewed thiough the golden haze of 
his fancy, differed as widely from her in reality as the 
picture we conceive of ourselves varies fiom that 
painted for us by our dearest friends. But without 
imagination there can be no love. Is not love itself 
a delusion ? Was not the tyrant god represented by 
wise men as blind, incapable of seeing things as they 
really were? Tear the bandage of illusion from a 
lover’s eyes and he no longer beholds a divinity with 
star-like eyes and nectar-breathing lips, who sylph-like 
treads the air, but a mortal who pencils her pensive 
eyebrows, practises her sweetest smiles before the glass^ 
and walks on high-heeled shoes. But heaven grant 
this happy and too brief blindness may remain to 
every man upon this earth ; else, scarce as they are at 
present, there will be fewer marriages amongst us and 
greater traffic in the matrimonial market, where 
barter is conducted on the principles of a cattle fair op 
stock exchange, to the misery of the bought and the 
buyer, and the satisfaction of the lawyer who composes 
the bill of sale, and the. profit of the clergyman who 
ratifies the bargain by his blessing. 

Philip Amerton lay back in an easy-chair thinking 
strange thoughts. A shaded reading-lamp ' made a 
circle of orange light upon a desk beside him, leaving 
the room in shadows, through which faces in the picr 
tures around peered wistfully. On a table, within 
reach of his hand, were rough bound volumes of 
Jerome Cardan, Pobertus de Fluctibus, and Jacob 
Boehm’s works. On his knees lay a letter he had read 
again and again. It was in Benoni’s writing and ran 
as follows : 

** The hour has now amved in which you are called 


A MODERN MAGICIAN, 


Upon to decide if you will embrace the mystic life. 
The world holds much that promises fair for your 
future. If it satisfies the highest desires of your soul, 
rest content with your life. But if there lives within 
you strong desires for spiritual attainments, uncon- 
querable yearnings for hidden knowledge, come to me 
and I will set your footsteps on the pathway leading to 
light inextinguishable. Consider how different in a 
few years hence will appear all things which now fill 
your days. Before three decades have passed, the 
glamour of existence will have fallen from your sight, 
and you will behold it in naked truth. Then shall love 
seem as a dream, passion as madness, ambition as 
vanity, friendship as deception. In that time shall 
you learn all the world can give is worthless of accept- 
ance. Eegard your present as a period of probation, 
that your future may know wisdom ; trample upon 
your lower self that you may enjoy peace beyond men’s 
knowledge. Open your soul to the Infinite as flowers 
expand their petals to the sun. In the silence of your 
heart listen to its promptings : consider fully the 
capabilities of your spirit, for before truth is revealed 
to you much 'must be endured. 

“ Benoni.” 

Beset by conflicting thoughts Philip’s mind swayed 
to and fro in a storm of emotions as branches are tossed 
in the madness of a gale. But as the moon rising in 
heaven subdues turbulent tides, so presently there 
rose before his mental sight the vision of a woman, 
the light of whose eyes banished cheerlessness from his 
heart, the music of whose voice filled his soul with 
melody. Surely life spent with her must pass as an 
unclouded day of perfect light. Thinking of her with 
a heart-rapture that rendered existence a delight, he 
Asked himself what powers were worth the bliss of 


PHILIP AMERTON’S RESOLUTION. 8i 

years spent in her companionship. Could the lone and 
loveless life of a disciple, though endowed with super- 
natural gifts, compensate for the loss of one whose 
memory brought warmth to the blood and blessedness 
to his heart ? 

From the height of happiness to which her love 
would elevate him, he might look down with com- 
passion on the petty world below. Secure in a felicity 
welded by perfect fusion of hearts and trustfulness of 
soul, he might defy fate. Surely union with her would 
break down the barrier of isolation that shut him out 
from the warmth of humanity. Would he be for ever 
content to walk in the future as in the past, like a 
shadow amongst men, with no hopes or feelings in 
common with them, no desires or affinities binding 
them in mutual kinsmanship, unsolaced by affections 
he was bound to abjure, uncheered by tenderness he 
was pledged to repel ? The pitiful weariness of vain 
longings depressed him ; the heart-hunger and soul- 
craving for perfect sympathy and devoted love — the 
best birthright of humanity — beset him. No, he 
would bid farewell to his dreams of hidden power and 
mystic lore, shelter his life in the warmth of affection, 
and forswear all cravings for the supernatural for ever- 
more. His mind was now resolved on the course he 
would take, beyond possibility of change. In the 
fervid heat of conviction he turned to his desk, and 
wrote Benoni the following reply: 

“I have pondered well on your words, and have 
decided finally on . my future. I am without the 
spiritual strength to endure privations necessary for an 
initiate. Life now holds out to me promises of happi- 
ness, the sacrifice of which could never be repaid by 
attainments of wisdom or power. Kegard me as one 
unworthy to become your disciple ; but permit me to 


82 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


follow the beacon-light of peace, held forward to gnide 
one whose existence has long struggled with the dark- 
ness of sorrow and misery of unrest. If I disappoint 
you, let the sadness of my lonely past and the hopes of 
my future joy plead with you for forgiveness. Adieu ! ” 
, He hastily folded the note, and, to ensure the safety 
of its transmission, posted it himself. Night de- 
scended on him with refreshing peace. The end of 
the struggle had come ; determination had been 
reached. Throughout long hours of sleepfulness he 
was conscious of ))rofound calm and long-needed 
mental rest. When he woke, morning was far advanced. 
On opening his eyes, his sight was directed to a note 
lying on the carpet near his bed. He did not doubt it 
was from Benoni ; nor aware of his power, did he 
marvel at its appearance. The words it contained were 
few : 

“ I have received your answer, and accept it without 
disappointment. We may not meet again for many 
months, asT leave England to-day, and the period of 
my absence depends on a will other than my own. 
That we shall meet in the future, I am certain. Mean- 
while my services are yours to command. In answer 
to the summons of your desires, I shall be with you in 
spirit if not in the flesh. 

“ May the All Merciful lead you to paths of peace, 

‘‘ Benoni.** 


CHAPTER III. 

PLIGHTED TROTH. 

The small hours of the morning succeeding the night 
of her aunt’s reception were spent by Miriam Netley 


PLIGHTED mOTIL 


^53 


, in wakefulness and reflection. In refusing Colonel 
Tarbert’s proi)Osal of marriage, she had taken a step 
which would influence her future life. Having no 
doubt of her wisdom, she had no regrets for her 
decision. A time had been indeed when she had 
regarded him with favour and received his broad com- 
pliments with pleasure. His vigorous personality and 
decisive manner had possessed an attraction for her 
that might have led to deeper feelings had she never 
met Philip Amerton. PVom her first encounter with 
the latter, her mind had changed towards the former, 
and by degrees Colonel Tarbert’s imperfections dawned 
upon her. He was almost double her age, his fame 
was not without reproach ; he was red-faced, corpulent, 
and brusque-mannered ; his head was almost bald, and 
his breath habitually smelt of brandy and cigars. 

That by the deaths of his father, an octogenarian, and 
his elder brother an invalid, he might soon succeed to 
an earldom, by no means influenced her in his favour. 
This unusual indifference to titles in one of her age 
and sex could only be accounted for by the fact that 
having been at school with the daughters of a radical 
poet, she had imbibed the theories they inherited, and 
could talk very prettily on the wrongs of the people 
and the rights of class. Moreover, being romantic and 
given to read fiction, a man who was by calling an 
author possessed a charm for her, which only total 
inexperience of the craft could create. She would 
perhaps have preferred Philip Amerton to have been 
an artist; but on consideration the painter heroes 
of yellow-covered novels — long-haired geniuses, who 
achieved fame by a single effort, or died neglected to 
become immortal — were rendered commonplace from 
mudiplicity, and a popular writer was, all things con- 
sidered, preferable in real life, for a change. Used to 
AdYiiatages wealth bestowed, she longedL to shiue 


04 A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

the consideration talent conferred, and as the wife of a 
novelist, beheld herself an object of interest to her 
friends, of attention in society. 

Than the two men who wooed her, none could be 
more unlike. The fascination each possessed for her 
lay in the diversity of their characters; but if the 
attraction was at first equal in strength it was different 
in kind ; the one elevated, the other lowered her better 
nature. From the hour she first met Amerton, his 
influence over her had by a subtle power, which 
exercised neither word or effort, changed the current 
of her life. What traits in his character appealed to 
hers she could not define. The sadness underlying his 
life, unexpressed by him but recognized by her, had 
inspired her with sympathy and filled her with some 
vague hope of brightening his future. 

She had formed many conjectures concerning the 
cause of his gravity, woven many romances to account 
for the sad look resting shadow-like in his eyes. She 
felt sure he had suffered — aye, grievously suffered. 
All the heroes of whom she read had been plunged 
in grief by the treachery and falsity of women. So must 
it have been with him. Her heart rose in rebellion 
against the fickle creature, whilst her soul was filled 
with rage that the unknown had won his love, to leave 
him for one who was utterly worthless, though doubts 
less wealthy. 

In a moment of enthusiasm, which solidified to reso- 
lution, she conceived it her mission to shed light upon 
his path. Admiration for one capable of the depth 
and tenderness of feeling, power and brilliancy of 
realization which his books set forth, exalted him in 
her mind. But perhaps his greatest attraction lay 
in the fact that his nature being higher than hers, 
she recognized there was that within him she, without 
fully understanding, longed to share. That he loved 


PLIGHTED TROTH. 


her she had little doubt, thouga no word of his had 
served to bring conviction of his affection to her mind ; 
but an occasional look in his eyes when he glanced at 
her, the. tone of his voice when he addressed her, gave 
her assurance which speech and ceremony might have 
failed to convey. In his presence the possibilities of 
her higher nature were perceptible, while with Colonel 
Tarbert beside her she trod a commonplace plane, 
feeling of the world worldly, confessing herself a child 
of earth. 

Within a week of the night on which he had 
despatched his letter to Benoni, Philip Amerton had 
occasion to visit the library of the British Museum. 
On this May day the sky was clear and blue, the sun 
bright and warm, and he felt unusually light-spirited 
and happy. As he entered the vestibule the sight 
of a familiar figure approaching arrested his attention, 
and the next moment he was speaking to Miss Netley. 
A glow of welcome like a ray of summer light had 
brightened her face at his appearance. 

“ I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of seeing you 
here,” he said. 

“ I came to sketch some figures on the new vases in 
the Egyptian room ; have you seen them ? ” 

“No,” he answered, and then hesitatingly added, 
Will you guide me to them ? ” 

“ Certainly,” she said ; and he walked beside her, 
scarce knowing if he moved on earth or traversed a 
land of dreams. 

The sound of her voice, the sight of her face created 
his happiness. Surely whilst she was beside him no 
weary thoughts of unknown things, no wild desires for 
secret power would haunt the even course of his days. 
She would chain him firmly to earth, from which he 
otherwise might soar to perilous heights. Now was 
the moment to secure this anchor of his life. lie 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


heard her comments on vases and ornaments without 
quite understanding the drift of her words ; and wiien 
she would have proceeded down the room, showing him 
in her character of cicerone fresh wonders of Egyptian 
art, he begged she would sit down on one of the 
benches, placed there by considerate trustees for the 
benefit of weary travellers through this wilderness of 
treasures. She consented, and then became aware of 
something unusual in his manner. She wondered if he 
was about to propose that she should marry him ; and 
if so, hoped he might use choice language, quote a 
verse or two, and speak of the despair to which her 
refusal would hurry him. 

“ On such a day as this we first met,” he said. 

This was a much better beginning than Colonel 
Tarbert had made, who approached the delicate topic 
by saying, “You’re deuced good-looking, you know, 
JVIiss Netley ; ’pon my word you are.” ; 

“ You remember ? ” asked Amerton, waiting for a 
reply other thoughts had intercepted. 

“Yes; at a lunch given by somebody at Twicken- 
ham.” 

“ Near our host’s cottage stands a thicket, into which 
we strayed and lost ourselves. The atmosphere of 
violets and pine-wood there comes back to me now, has 
oftentimes haunted me since, when I thought of you.” 

This she considered was a wooing worthy of a poet ; 
the verses must soon come now. 

“ For I have often dreamt of that day, when a new 
pleasure was born into my life, and all the world 
seemed glad to my sight. From that hour I loved 
you.” 

Was th t all, she wondered ; his confession seemed 
short, and in some way incomplete without mention of 
his heart, his hopes, or his despair. 

. .‘‘Mr. Amerton,” she said, then adding in an under' 


PLIGHTED TROTS. 


87 


Cone, “Pliilip,” paused and cast her eyes down. This 
was the manner in which most heroines of whom she 
fead had acted on like occasions. 

F<»r a second he hesitated ; some tone in her voice 
made him wonder if he had merely judged her feelings 
by his own desires ; but this momentary doubt vanished 
as speedily as it had arrived. 

“ Let me tell you all,” he continued resolutely, ‘‘ for 
my heart is full to-day and I must speak. My life has 
been one of peculiar loneliness ; but from the hour I 
saw you a new element came into my being. In the 
solitary ways of my old existence your image became 
familiar ; you had woven a golden thread into the 
pattern of my days, and their hue was no longer 
of unbroken sombreness. I have allowed my hopes 
to centre round you, my thoughts to picture you 
as my future wife; tell me they have not been 
vain.” 

The colour deepened in her fair face, his words had 
touched her more than she could express, a sense of 
triut ph elated her, she felt certain she loved him 
well,\ind she would tell him so honestly. 

“ Philip,” she said gently, “ I love you. I have often 
hoped and wished for this hour.” 

Her breath upon his cheek made all his senses 
tremble ; her words acted on his senses like strong 
wine upon a child. 

“Then, he said earnestly, as if in, answer to new 
ideas rising within him, “ nothing shall sepaiate 

US.” 

Even as he spoke thoughts of Benoni flashed through 
his mind, and he looked round half expecting to behold 
the stately presence of the mystic beside him. His 
companion did not heed his momentary distraction. 

■ “ Nothing,” she said, “shall ever separate us — not 
even my aunt.” For to Miss Netley’s mind her rela-^ 


38 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


tive’s broad and beaming features at that moment 
assumed the dignity and terror of fate. 

In Amerton’s ardour he had lost sight of such a 
commonplace mortal, and therefore simply said, “ I 
had forgotten her.” Then added, “ I must call and 
tell her of my happiness and ask her consent to our 
union.” 

“ And if,” said the girl, remembering the course of 
true love never did run smooth in novels, and therefore 
hoping to meet with cruel opposition that would, after 
many tears and fears, be finally overcome, “ and if she 
should refuse ” 

“ Which is probable,” interrupted Philip, remember- 
ing Mrs. Netley^s words to her niece on the evening of 
her reception. 

You will not marry me ? ” 

Good heavens, how can you think so, Miriam ? 
Did we not say nothing should part us and must we 
quail and forego our words at the first obstacle which 
presents itself ? ” 

“ No, no ; but I fear she has set her heart on wed 
ding me to — to somebody else.” 

“ But she can’t dispose of you as if you were a piece 
of furniture,” he replied. 

“ No ; but she is ambitious, unreasonable, obstinate, 
and may give us trouble.” 

“ Tell me, when shall you be of age ? ” he asked 
after a moment’s hesitation. 

“ Next month,” she replied. 

Then,” he answered triumphantly, “ we may fix on 
your birthday as the date of our marriage ; for when 
you are one-and-twenty you will be independent of 
Mrs. Netley, and free to follow your own desires. 
Another month, and you will be my wife.” 

He looked up and down the long gallery, it was 
completely empty, and bending forward he kissed her.» 


COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 


When their lips touched he felt as if his heart had 
suddenly frozen. Both rose and walked side by side 
through the halls and out of the building. Nor did 
they speak until sunshine fell upon them. 


CHAPTER IV. 

COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 

One morning towards the end of May, Colonel Tarberfc 
sat at breakfast in his bachelor chambers in Piccadilly. 
A number of circulars, letters, and bills, mixed with 
envelopes and wrappers, torn open as if in haste and 
vexation, lay tossed in confusion before him. His 
brows were contracted, and the glitter of his heavy- 
lidded eyes savoured of unpleasant meditations. 

“ I have been deucedly unlucky,” he said, stretching 
out his legs and arms, and then bringing his right 
hand down upon the table with a force that made it 
ring. “That girl has refused me, and she and her 
money go to that miserable hound whom report says 
she is to marry.” 

It had happened to the Hon. Robert Tarbert before 
now that women whom he would have favoured with 
his regard preferred other men ; a piece of bad taste 
he had hitherto considered with compassionate surprise. 
But that Miss Netley should have refused him her 
hand and fortune, to promise both within a few days to 
Amerton, was a cause of sore vexation. His displeasure 
■^as greater from the knowledge she had not been 
indifferent to him before her acquaintance with his 
rival, and from the fact that he had come to regard her 
person and dowry as his whenever he chose to demand 
them. He had been prepared to take her as a burden 


€0 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


appended to her fortune, and. found he regretted her 
independent of her wealth. Until now, when she was 
lost to him, he had not discovered how well he liked 
her; for of love in its true sense he was wholly in* 
capable. Before her refusal he had not known how 
much he counted on her money to prop his credit and 
keep his debts from tumbling upon him with over- 
whelming confusion. He felt indignant with himself 
for having lost a stake, though holding good cards in 
his hand when the game began ; and he felt more 
cynically disposed towards the world at large than 
usual, more anxious to avenge in some way by word or 
thought, if not by action, a fate which endowing him 
with expensive inclinations, left him without means of 
gratifying them. 

The woman, he concluded, referring to Miriam, was 
certainly a fool, and in marrying Amerton would be 
mated to her like. They would beget such idiots as 
already over-ran the world, who, when not dupes of the 
few clever men surviving, heavily burden the circle in 
which they move, drivelling in each other’s faces, pos- 
turing as politicians to the vexation of nations, as 
philosophers of penny newspapers, as petty sages to 
suit the foolish times, as pigmy righters of giant 
wrongs, and otherwise playing ape-like antics to attract 
the notice of their fellows — yes, this man and woman 
would fulfil their mission. 

Satisfied with this conclusion, he rose from the table 
and walked up and down the room. “If I hadn’t 
staked my last penny on that unlucky beast, I might 
tide over my diflSculties again,” he thought. “ I am 
too old for sheep-minding in Australia or farming in 
Canada, besides, civilization doesn’t exist for me outside 
London ; it’s the only place for men of brains. There 
is but one way out- of this difficulty.” His face, relax- 
ing its fixed look, brightened as with the light of 


COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 


41 


determination. Pausing in his walk at a sideboard, he; 
poured out and drank some brandy. The liquor 
warmed him as with new life. 

Stepping on the balcony outside the window he 
looked down on the fitful, pleasant scene before him. 
It was almost noon, and the world was bright ; the 
bustle of every-day life was rife in Piccadilly. Omni- 
buses with heavily freighted loads, a gay four-in-hand 
crowded with brightly-dressed women, a wagonette, 
thronged with pleasure-seekers en route for Kichmond, 
equestrians bound for the park, pedestrians surging to 
and fro, a company of horse-guards returning to 
Knightsbridge barracks, all steeped in sunshine and 
thrown into relief against the Green Park opposite, 
passed before him. The sight gave him pleasure- 
wooed him to its midst. His spirits rose, and with 
them increased his resolution to save himself from 
difficulties. 

Returning to the room, he sat down at his desk and 
wrote a few hurried lines, then pausing to consider, he 
promptly tore them up. “ ‘ If it were done, when Tis 
done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,* ” he said 
aloud. “ Some wise man wrote such words, and I’ll act 
on them.” Entering his bedroom, he finished his 
toilet, left the house, and calling a cab was driven to 
Charing Cross. Alighting in the Strand, he walked 
towards Temple Bar until reaching a narrow dark street, 
running down towards the Embankment, from which 
it was separated by a low wall and high iron railings. 
About midway down stood a house, sufficiently gloomy 
and disreputable in appearance to have sheltered a 
brace of lawyers or have served as the head -quarters of 
a bubble company. The door stood invitingly open, 
and Colonel Tarbert entering, ascended a narrow un- 
carpeted stairway, bearing evidence of the wear and 
tear of time^ the dust and mud of the Strand. Tha 


n 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


rooms on the first floor were occupied by the offices of 
a charitable organization; those on the second by a 
society journal of limited circulation. Passing these, 
Colonel Tarbert sought a higher story, and reached a 
door giving entrance to third-floor apartments. Kap- 
ping at this, he was speedily admitted, and without 
uttering a word of greeting, crossed the room and flung 
himself into the first comfortable chair which presented 
itself. 

“ Colonel Tarbert,” said the man who had opened the 
door. 

“ I suppose you would say these cursed stairs are the 
means to a blessed end,” he said, surveying Jacob 
Glender, a man below middle height, broad-shouldered 
and muscular. His close-shaven sallow-complexion ed 
face was remarkable for its width of forehead and 
squareness of massive jaw ; he possessed imagination 
to conceive and determination to execute. Nature had 
given him strong forces with which to shape the good 
or evil of his life. Judging from the defiant look in 
his eyes, as if he held the world at bay, together with 
certain lines round his broad mouth, the viciousness of 
his mind had overcome whatever virtue it may originally 
have possessed. In his general bearing an air of surly 
doggedness surmounted a certain sleekness that had 
probably been the result of training rather than of 
natural expression. He was dressed in a suit of well- 
worn clothes that had begun life with sobriety, and 
exhibited sporting proclivities towards middle age. 

“You are in easy quarters,” said Colonel Tarbert 
familiarly, looking round the room, which exhibited 
some signs of comfort, probably due to womanly influ- 
ence. Glender no doubt had added his mite to the 
ornamentation of the room, judging from the picture 
of a Derby favourite, a portrait of Fred Archer, cut 
from the Sporting and Dramatic News, and a photo- 


COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 4^ 

graph of a celebrated prize-fighter hanging upon the 
walls. To him likewise belonged a bundle of whips 
and sticks standing in a corner ; correct cards of by- 
gone races, time-tables, a collection of pipes, and a 
black bottle, scattered about the chimney board. 

“ Easy quarters ! ” repeated Glender, standing on 
the hearthstone, his hands buried in his trousers pockets ; 

“ success rewards the enterprising.” 

“ You have been enterprising,” said the colonel with 
emphasis. 

Jacob Glender winced ; the tone more than the 
words of his visitor grated on his ears. He fixed his 
eyes on the man before him, anxious to ascertain the 
object of his call. 

“ I have,” replied Jacob, after a slight pause. 

“You speak in the past tense,” continued Tarbert, • 
eyeing his host with some curiosity. “ May I be per- 
mitted to inquire how you employ your talents at 
present ? ” ♦ 

“ Did you come here to ask me that'question ? ” 

“ Partly,” answered the colonel, lying back in his 
chair and crossing his legs, “ and partly regarding 
business I wish you to transact for me.” 

“ Well you know,” he replied, catching something of 
the irony underlying his visitor's words, “ it is my 
privilege to give tips to sporting gentlemen anxious to 
make fortunes without waste of time or energy.'^ 

“ Yes, I know that — to my cost.” 

“ No oracle is infallible.” 

“Nor did any oracle ever make so much by its 
fallibility.” 

Glender smiled and bowed as if a compliment had 
been paid him. “ You will do me the justice to 
remember that, acting on my suggestion, you have 
made money.” 

“ Once to the thrice IVe lost it ; but I haven’t come 


44 


A MODEEN MAGICUN. 


to complain of this ; whatever I may think, I know 
there’s no use crying over spilt milk, I shan’t trouble 
you for advice again.” 

“ May I ask why ? ” 

‘‘ Because I have lost confidence in your honesty.” 

Glender started ; both looked at each other search- 
ingly, whilst neither spoke for some time. 

“ You have come to this conclusion because you’ve 
lost a few pounds ? ” 

“Not because I have lost some hundreds of pounds, 
but rather that I have heard some details of your early 
Ufe.” 

Glender became rigid as stone for some seconds; 
then locking the door, he dragged a chair to a small 
table standing near his visitor, and sat down facing 
, him. “Tell me,” he said determinedly, “what you 
have heard.” 

“ Let me see,” said the colonel with great coolness, 
“ where I shall begin. 4)nce upon a time a young 
clergyman of sporting proclivities, whose name I 
needn’t mention, took to what his prejudiced parish 
ioners called evil ways. A passion for the turf led him 
to take shares in a racehorse, associate with blacklegs, 
and make books.” He narrowly watched the effect of 
his words on Glender, who heard him with fixed eyes 
and clenched teeth. 

“ A shady transaction at Ascot almost brought the 
owners of a certain horse into the law courts,” con- 
tinued the colonel; “the matter was smoothed over 
eventually, a wealthy patron of one of them, who 
happened to be a peer, interfering on his behalf. Bad 
led to worse. In addition to Other follies, this young 
man indulged in gambling, which brought him to the 
brink of ruin. Hoping to retrieve his losses, he placed 
all the money he could borrow, together with a con- 
siderable sum belonging to his parish funds, on a horse 


COLONEL TAB BERT EXPLAINS. 


45 


he was sure must win the Derby. The old story was 
repeated once more; the horse came in third; disgrace 
faced the parson. You find the tale interesting ? ” 

“ Cro on/’ 

“ He was not yet beaten. He had always been 
remarkably clever with his pen, and had for the pur- 
pose of playing practical jokes, cultivated a talent for 
imitating the writing of others. By this means the 
parishioners to whose spiritual wants he ministered on 
the seventh day were kept in perpetual excitement 
during the week. Young ladies who had just left the 
school-room received amorous epistles from crusty old 
bachelors ; unmarried women, whose years had passed 
three-score-and-ten, found themselves objects of young 
men’s admiration as ardently expressed in love-letters. 
Enemies received invitations to each other’s homes, 
friend upbraided friend for imaginary grievances. The 
writing in each case was so like that of the person 
whose signature it bore that it deceived those most 
familiar with its characteristics. The air was rife with 
assertions, contradictions, and imprecations; but the 
author of the disturbance was never traced. Of this 
useful accomplishment, practised with so much success, 
the young curate now bethought himself; and one day 
signed the name of a county magnate at the bottom of 
a cheque for a considerable sum, and was therefore 
able to evade ruin for some time. The amount not 
being sufficient to entirely free him from debt, he 
wrote another. The game was played once too often, 
the forgery was traced to its writer, who being brought 
to justice, was sentenced to seven years’ penal servi^ 
tude.” 

Colonel Tarbert paused. Grlender’s eyes flamed with 
light, his face became pale from suppressed passion. 
Leaning across the table he asked in a hoarse voice: 

- “Why tell me this wretched story of my life, 


46 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


have you come here like a bloodhound to hunt me 
down ? ” 

Colonel Tarbert pushed back his chair. Glender’s 
face was no pleasant sight ; his voice had a dangerous 
ring. 

. “ No,” he said, striving with an effort to laugh ; “ a 
guilty conscience makes you nervous. I merely wished 
to let you know I was aware of your talent, -which I 
want you to exercise on my behalf.” 

“ You want me to ” 

“ Sign another person’s name to a cheque. That is 
all.” 

Glender lay back in his chair with evident relief. 
He passed his square thick-jointed hand across his face, 
then suddenly asked, “ How did you learn my secret ? ” 

“ By accident,” replied the colonel. 

“ Don’t parry words with me now ; answer my 
question.” 

The county magnate whose name you forged told 
me the story as an instance of misapplied talent and 
wasted energy ; as a tale, in fact, pointing a moral and 
so forth. He had no idea I had the pleasure of your 
acquaintance, is unaware of your adopted name, indeed, 
lost sight of you since — since you stood in the dock as 
a felon.” 

Jacob Glender winced again, and the bones of his 
massive jaw moved as if he ground his teeth. 

“ Then how did you know I was the man to whom 
he referred ? ” 

Colonel Tarbert smiled. “ I have,” he replied, “ a 
habit of putting two and two together. From the 
description given of your person, which is not common, 
from a certain air*of the cleric which hangs round you 
still, and from the date of your appearance in London, 
I suspected that the Eeverend Amos Berkeley and Mr. 
Jacob Glender were one and the same person. I didn’t 


COLONEL TAEBERT EXPLAINS. 


know it for a fact until I received the assurance from 
your lips.” 

The two men stared at each other. Greek had met 
Greek. 

“Then,” said Glender, “you have entrapped me.” 

“ Say. rather that in a moment of excitement you 
confided in me.” 

Glendor stood up from the table and went back to 
his station by the chimney-piece. 

“ You have more brains than I expected,” said the 
colonel pacifically. 

“You will not change your mind before you have 
finished with me.” 

“ No ; believe me you have risen in my estimation 
considerably.” 

“ Now,” said Glender, with sudden vehemence, “cut 
that chaff and tell me like a man if you mean to expose 
me.” 

“ As I intend making use of you, exposure would be 
against my policy.” 

“And if I refuse being made use of?” Glender re- 
plied sullenly. 

“ It never occurred to me you would be so unreason- 
able. Sit down again ; you will heed me better when 
more at your ease.” 

Glender flung himself into a chair with dogged surli- 
ness. “You have the upper hand of me to-day,” he 
said fiercely, “ but beware how you use it.” 

“ I shall use it for my own advantage,” replied the 
colonel ; “ and,” he added after a pause, “ for yours if 
you please.” 

“I don’t know what you’re aiming at, but there’s 
one thing I’ll tell you, I’m not going to risk penal servi- 
tude again ; no more of that for me.” 

“Not even to oblige a friend,” said the colonel, 
laughing scornfully. The manner in which the words 


48 


A MODERN MAGICIAN, 


were spoken and the laughter succeeding them, roused 
Glender once more. 

‘‘ Have done with your irony,” he said, striking the 
table with his clenched fist, “ or by heavens, I shall not 
be answerable for my acts.” 

“ It is wonderful to consider,” remarked the colonel 
with increased coolness, ‘‘how strong is the force of 
old habits. Even in your case some recollections of 
your profession in the past is responsible for mention 
of a place in which you have no faith in the present, 
no hope of reaching in the future. But lest I engage 
too much of a time greatly occupied in advising unwary 
but adventurous spirits, I must come to the object of 
my visit. That you may the better understand my 
position, I must briefly narrate some autobiographical 
details ; they will serve as a return for the confidence 
with which you were good enough to entrust me.” 

Glender leaned his elbow on the table, screening his 
eyes with his hand. 

“You are perhaps aware,” said the colonel, “that my 
father, Lord Kerry, is a very wealthy man. He is not, 
nor has he ever been a wicked earl, squandering his 
money in ways known to the devout as unworthy. On 
the contrary, he invested largely and profited much ; 
cultivated his property so as to increase its value, and 
hoarded his savings with the instincts of a miser. To 
my elder brother. Lord Tralee, a man after his own 
heart, he is liberal; to me he makes a beggarly al- 
lowance of eight hundred a year. He has, I must con- 
fess, paid my debts more than once, with extreme bad 
grace and much good advice. But he has positively 
refused to repeat this kindness now when I am pestered 
with duns and don’t know which way to turn for a 
penny. Everything which hereditary taste and early 
training have led me to appreciate is expensive. I 
have heard of a man who lived on sixpence a day and 


COLONEL TARBEET EXPLAINS. 


<9 


wrote a book on the subject ; but existence supported on 
such a sum would be impossible to me. I have mort- 
gaged my annuity ; the Children of Israel, wise in their 
generation, will no longer lend me a shilling; the horse 
you recommended me to back was scratched. I strove 
to marry a fortune the other day and was unsuccessful; 
my brother to wh(jm I haven’t spoken for years, 
wouldn’t give a shilling to save my life. Though my 
friends may not see the necessity of it, yet I must live; 
and living, pander to general prejudices by dressing as 
my fellow-creatures. In fact I must have money.” 

“ So it seems,” said Glender, who had cooled down 
considerably ; “ but how can I help you ? ” 

“ Not by your advice, no more of that, but by your 
actions, by the actions of your clever hand.” 

“ I told you I shan’t risk penal servitude again ?” 

‘‘ Bah,” said his hearer, “ it’s not a mere common- 
place forgery I’m about to suggest ; as for danger there 
shall be none — to you.” 

“ How is that ? ” asked Glender. 

“I am not generally Oonsidered a fool,” continued 
the colonel ; “ had I lived a century ago I should have 
been styled the ingenious Mr. Tarbert, but we have 
fallen upon an unajopreciative age. Here am I dunned 
by the Hebrew race, threatened by tradesmen, my 
custom declined by tailors, whilst my father has more 
money at his disposal than he can spend. He is rich ; 
I am poor. He refuses to give me even a small share 
of his wealth ; why should I not therefore help myself 
from his abundance ? ” 

“ How ? ” said Glender with interest 
“ By strategy. A month ago I went to Ireland and 
made personal application to him for funds; he refused 
me. Last week I wrote again, telling him I should be 
ruined, and have to pass through the bankruptcy court, 
or eke out a miserable existence in a cheap foreign 


50 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. ^ 


town, if he didn’t pay my debts. I promised if he gave 
me three thousand pounds I should be more careful in 
future, should certainly amend my ways. Here is hia 
answer received this morning,” continued the colonel, 
producing a letter and reading it aloud : “ ‘ Dear 
Egbert, — Your application for the sum mentioned sur- 
prises and displeases me. I have^aid your debts three 
times, and on the last occasion told you emphatically I 
should not do so again. I shall not change my resolu- 
tion, and you must endure the difficulties you have 
brought upon yourself. Your extravagance, from your 
youth upwards, has been a source of regret to me, will 
prove a cause of humiliation to you some day. — Your 
affectionate father, Kerry.’” 

“ The old man is in earnest,” added Jacob Glender, 
grimly. 

“Yes, his letter is not only unpleasant but unjust. 
Kow here is what he should have written,” added the 
colonel, referring to a note he had scribbled in his 
pocket book : “ ‘ Dear Eobert, I regret you have found 
it necessary to ask me for money again. You seem to 
forget I paid your debts for the third time two years 
since. Your extravagance seems to increase instead of 
diminish. However, I inclose you a cheque for the 
sum requested, on the distinct understanding that I 
shall not in future be expected to give you further help, 
no matter what your difficulties. — ^Your affectionate 
father, Kerry.’” 

“ Y ery neat,” said Glender appreciatively. 

“ Now that is what he should have written, what he 
shall write.” 

“ You cannot force him.’® 

The colonel raised his eyebrows and smiled. “ How 
dull you are,” he remarked. 

Glender thought a moment, then threw himself back 
in his chair and laughed. “ ’Pon my honour,” he 


COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 


51 


claimed, his former surliness entirely vanishing, "yo 
are a genius.” 

You see what I mean,” said the colonel triump 
antly. “ You possessing an accomplishment which h 
rendered you famous, will copy my father’s writing an 
pen such a note as I have sketched, inclosing a cheque 
for five thousand pounds. You will cross the Channel 
to-night, proceed to Ballyfrain, where he lives, and post 
this letter. I shall have no second confidant. Next 
day I shall receive the communication, present the 
cheque, pay my debts and be a free man again. Should 
my father, in course of time, forget he had sent me the 
money — for at his age memory is not at its best — I 
shall have his letter bearing the postmark of Ballyfrain, 
to prove he sent it me. Should he in a moment of 
rage and suspicion pronounce the cheque and letter 
forgeries, he will doubt the honour and honesty of his 
son. This is possible, for fathers, I regret to say, are 
not what they have been or should be; but that he 
should question my virtue and reputation in a public 
court is inconceivable.” 

“ In this skilful arrangement,” said Glender thought- 
fully, "there is one little particular you have quite 
overlooked.” 

" And that ? ” 

My reward.” 

"No. The mention of it was merely postponed. I 
shall deal liberally with you. You shall have two hun 
dred pounds for your trouble.” 

"Two hundred fiddlesticks,” replied Glender con 
temptuously. " Do you think I’m a baby.” 

" Believe me, such an idea never occurred to me. I 
think this sum will fully compensate your services ; 
remember you run no risk.” 

" Kisk or no risk, I refuse to meddle in this afiair for 
fuch a paltry sum,” 


62 


A MODEBN MAGICIAN. 


yon refuse ^ 

«Well?” 

There are certain awkward facts in yonr history 
with which you may not desire your clients to become 
acquainted.” 

G lender laughed defiantly. Two can play at that 
game,” he said. “ Should you wish your father to 
learn you had asked me to forge his name ? ” 

“ He would not believe you,” answered the colonel. 

“ Not if I repeated the words of his letter and laid 
bare your plot ? Come, don’t let us quarrel over a few 
pounds whilst a decent sum remains for each of us. 
You will not risk asking anybody else to help you ; if 
you were skilful enough to imitate your father’s writing 
you wouldn’t have come to me. Give me a cheque 
down for five hundred pounds, and the thing is done ; 
if not, I swear I’ll never put pen to paper for you.” 

He held out his hand across the table. The colonel 
saw he was in earnest, and after a second’s hesitation 
grasped the extended palm in ratification of the bar- 
gain. 

‘‘Now,” said Glender, “the sooner ’tis done the 
better. Give me Lord Kerry’s letter,” he added in a 
business-like manner, and taking the epistle to the light 
he examined it carefully, line for line, letter for letter, 
the up strokes and down strokes, the crossing of the t’s, 
the curling tails of the y’s. Finishing his scrutiny, he 
took down a blotting-pad, pen and ink from a litt* 
bookshelf, and by way of testing his pen and givin 
proof of his skill, wrote on the back of an old envelope 
the words, “ Your affectionate father, Kerry,” over and 
over again. His heavy face brightened over his work, 
and it was with evident enjoyment he regarded the 
fruit of his skill. 

“ You see,” he said, with pride, “ a forger, like an 
artist, is born not made. He serves no apprenticeship 


COLONEL TARBERT EXPLAINS. 


63 


his craft comes to him by inspiration and is perfected 
by practice. Both observe closely and imitate faithfully 
— the artist nature, the forger penmanship. Now, 
looking at this note of Lord Kerry’s, I first take into 
consideration the size and proximity of, or distance 
between each letter. Then must also be considered 
the formation of capitals, loops and curves, peculiarities 
in shaping certain characters, general individuality of 
style, always making allowance for the fact no man 
writes his name twice in exactly the same way.” 

As he spoke he wrote, slowly and with care, the 
words, “ Dear Eobert,” and then held the envelope on 
which it was written at some distance from him and 
afterwards close to his face, that he might view it in 
different effects of light. Satisfied with his work, he 
handed the paper to Colonel Tarbert, who regarded it 
with surprise and admiration. 

“It’s a fac-simile of the old man’s handwriting,” he 
said, “ and defies detection.” 

Glender smiled grimly, feeling proud of his accom- 
plishment, but like a true artist was dissatisfied with 
his best etiforts. Therefore, for upwards of an hour he 
continued copying Lord Kerry’s letter with care, repaid 
by satisfaction. “I am getting on the track of his 
lordship’s style,” he remarked ; “ don’t you think this 
is something like it ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t know it from my father’s.” 

“Now let us come to business.” 

Colonel Tarbert looked at him questioningly. 

“ You have brought your cheque-book, 1 suppose ? ” 

“ I happen to have it with me.” 

^‘Good. Then before I begin to work write me a 
cheque for five hundred pounds, payable to — to James 
Smith. If there is any trouble afterwards it is just as 
well Jacob Glender should not be mixed up with it j 
you know experience makes a man cautious*” 


A MODEBN MAGICIAN. 


.54 




You don’t trust me to pay you when I receive the 
cash?” 

“Business is business,” said the other evasively. 

“ But if this little game of ours shouldn’t turn up 
trumps, you will hold my cheque.” 

“ Which will be useless if there are no funds to meet 
its demands. I will trust you, in case all goes right, 
not to pay away the five thousand until I have had my 
mite.” 

The colonel sat upright in his chair, and putting his 
head on one side meditatively, said, “ How mistrustful 
is human nature. Here are we transacting for our 
mutual benefit a little business which popular prejudice 
would term felony, and yet we have not confidence in 
each other’s good faith. Ah, what an age we live in, 
to those who think deeply, it is most melancholy, my 
friend.” 

“ The cheque-book,” replied Grlender. 

“ Ah yes, we must put such sad if instructive con- 
siderations aside.” 

“ Will you or will you not write the cheque ? ” 

“ How impatient you are. Of course I’ll do anything 
to oblige you — anything in reason.” 

He took out his book, and without further words 
wrote and signed a cheque for the sum stipulated. 
Glender read it carefully, folded and put it away in his 
pocket-book. 

“ Now,” he said, “ how about the cheque which I am 
to fill for you ? ” 

“I have it with me,” answered the colonel, pro- 
ducing it from a letter case, and handing it across 
the table. 

“ You both bank with Coutts.” 

“ Yes, but this cheque is not taken from my book. 
If it were, its number might afterwards be traced to 
me, and lead my father to suspect he really had not, 


COLONEL TAEBERT EXPLAINa 65 

acting on a generous impulse, sent me the money. I 
have provided against such a mistake. This cheque is 
taken from my Other’s book.” 

Glender regarded him with admiration, feeling there 
was pleasure and security in working with so clever a 
partner. 

“ How did you get it,” he asked. 

“ I’ll tell you. I never act without consideration. 
Haste lays a man open to detection. With time comes 
thought, with thought caution. It is want of reflection 
which causes half the people in durance vile to suffer a 
sad separation from their less clever but more fortunate 
fellow-creatures. As I already told you, I crossed the 
Channel some weeks ago, that I might see my father 
and personally request he would pay my debts. On his 
refusal, the problem of a rich father and a poor son, 
which I have already had the pleasure of laying before 
you, occurred to me ; and I asked myself if there was 
no way of conjuring or* forcing the old man to my 
wishes. A few days before leaving England I had 
heard the story of your case — I mean of the misfortune 
which befell the Kev. Amos Berkeley, and the anecdote 
still floating in my mind suggested forgery as the 
means by which some of my father’s money might be- 
come mine. For some time I did not determine on 
the act ; but one day, whilst alone in the library, I saw 
his cheque-book lying on his desk. The value a blank 
cheque taken from it would prove to niy purpose, 
flashed upon my mind. I instantly secured one, and 
from the moment of its possession I burned to utilize 
it. I strove to imitate my father’s writing but could 
not succeed ; my eagerness to use his cheque sharpened 
my wits, and led me to discover Amos Berkeley under 
the guise of Jacob Glender.” 

“ I shouldn’t mind g ing partner with yoi' any 
job,” said Glender. 


56 


A MODEEN MAGICIAN. 


“ Eeally,” replied the colonel, reverting to the ironi- 
cal manner he had dropped for the moment. 

‘'Now,” said Glender, “I’ll fill up the cheque; don’t 
speak to me until it’s done.” In a few minutes he had 
accomplished his purpose to their mutual satisfaction. 

“It’s a work of art,” said the colonel. “The old 
man will think twice before he repudiates it as a 
forgery. Now write the letter, and we shall have 
finished an excellent morning’s work.” 

Then Glender penned the note purporting to come 
from Lord Kerry to his son, inclosing him a cheque ; it 
was written on paper bearing the family crest, which 
the colonel had provided. When this was finished, and 
its envelope addressed. Colonel Tarbert put Lord 
Kerry’s genuine letter in his breast pocket. “ You will 
caiTy out the remainder of the scheme carefully,” he 
said. “Leave Euston by the six-thirty this evening ; 
you will arrive in Dublin early in the morning, and 
then take train for Ballyfrain, post the forged letter, 
and your business is accomplished.” 

“ It shall be done,” replied Glender. 

“ Now I must go,” said the colonel, rising and turn- 
ing towards the window. “ What a view you have 
here ! ” he continued. As he stepped across the room 
with his eyes directed to the Thames and the Surrey 
shore, he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and 
at the same time, unseen by him, two envelopes fell 
softly on the carpet. 

Glender saw them, and stepping swiftly towards the 
window, flung the sash open. “ Yes,” he remarked, 
“ the view is pleasant on a fine day. If you lean for- 
ward you can see St. Paul’s.” 

The colonel stretched out his head, and at the same 
time Glender, stepping back, picked up the envelopes 
and put them in his pocket. 

“There’s Big Ben striking two,” said the coloneL 


JACOB GLENDEB’S MISSION. 


67 


withdrawing from the window and crossing to the centre 
of the room. As he did, a knock sounded at the door. 

“ Who’s there ? ” asked Jacob Glender. 

**It’s I,” answered a woman’s voice. 

Glender went forward, unlocked and opened the 
door, saying to the colonel by way of explanation, “ It’s 
only my wife.” 

In another second a young woman with a fresh fair 
complexion and bright brown hair, entered the apart- 
ment, carrying some light parcels in her arms. Seeing 
a stranger present, she hesitated and looked towards 
Glender nervously. 

“ It’s all right,” he said brusquely ; get into the 
other room.” 

Crossing to accomplish this purpose she dropped one 
of the parcels from her arms. The colonel stepped for- 
ward and handed it to her with a bow. As she thanked 
him their eyes met, then a vivid blush crept into her 
cheeks and she passed into the adjoining chamber. 
Glender walked towards the entrance-door and held it 
open for his guest, as if anxious for his departure. 

‘‘ Come and see me the moment you return to town,” 
said the colonel. 

Glender nodded. ‘‘ I shall not lose sight of you un- 
til I have pocketed the reward of my labour.” 

Colonel Tarbert laughed as he descended the narrow 
stair, feeling satisfied with the work he had accom- 
plished, and hopeful of its results. 


CHAPTER V. 

JACOB glender’s mssioN. 

Jacob Glender left Euston Station en route for Holy- 
head by the evening train. He had settled himself 


59 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


cosily in the comer of a second-class carriage, and 
having provided himself with comfort and amusement 
in the shape of a flask of brandy and some sporting 
papers, felt satisfied with himself and the world at 
large. 

The task on which he was engaged commended itself 
to his mind from the completeness of its conception 
and promptness of its execution. To make five hun- 
dred pounds in a space of time he characterized as 
“ the twinkling of a sheep’s tail,” was in itself an 
excellent achievement; to have security guaranteed 
him through the circumstances of the undertaking, 
completed his satisfaction. He had been engaged in 
no neater or more profitable work for some time. The 
sums derivable from confiding sportsmen anxious for 
correct tips, dwindled into insignificance beside this 
grand coup. No scruples regarding the dishonesty of 
his proceedings for a moment disturbed his inward 
complacency or detracted from his sense of elation. • 

He had accomplished an excellent piece of work- 
manship, and dwelt fondly on the artistic finish of his 
imitation. “ The old man must have eyes like Old 
Nick,” he said, “ if he discovers it’s a — it’s not his own 
writing,” Olender finished, avoiding even in thought 
the adoption of an ugly word. Mentally he reviewed 
the scene which had taken place a few hours ago in 
his rooms, giving credit to Colonel Tarbert for his 
ingenuity and boldness. 

The reflection that his past was known to this man 
troubled him, and he cursed himself that he had so 
readily betrayed the secret of his identity with one 
who had spent portion of his life in a convict prison. 
He consoled himself after some consideration by the 
belief Colonel Tarbert would not, for his own interests, 
betray him. “ If he blabs,” added Jacob, “ it will be 
tit for tat.” 


JACOB GLENDER’S MISSION. 


69 


Suddenly he thought of the letters he had obtained, 
they having until that moment escaped his memory. 
Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his coat, he 
pulled out two envelopes. The first contained Lord 
Kerry’s letter, dated two days before. Glender smiled 
delightedly at the prize which had unexpectedly come 
into his possession. “This is worth keeping safely,” 
he said ; “ it will serve to checkmate the colonel should 
he threaten to give me trouble or strive to play me 
false. It is a clear proof the old man declines to give 
him a penny, though two days later he sends him five 
thousand pounds. And then his lordship’s writing is 
interesting as a study. I shouldn’t feel surprised if I 
required it as a model some other day.” Having care- 
fully read the letter he replaced it in his pocket and 
took out the second envelope. It was directed to 
Colonel Tarbert in a firm, heavy hand, bold in its up- 
strokes, but feminine and dainty in its curves. It was 
at once original, peculiar, and indicative of strong 
characteristics. 

Having made handwriting a study, Jacob Glender 
seldom forgot the peculiarities of each writer he had 
known. As he gazed at the letters before him his face 
alternately expressed surprise, doubt, and speculation. 
Something strangely familiar in the characters fasci- 
nated him, and yet they were not those of the person 
with whom he would at first have identified them. 
The envelope had been opened, and he drew forth its 
contents hesitatingly, as one who expects a revelation 
for which he is unprepared. The evidence he sought 
was not disclosed to him. The envelope merely con- 
tained a square card bearing a printed invitation, “Gal 
Alex. At home, Tuesday, June 2nd. Nine o’clock. 
Music. — K.S.V.P.” The only writing it bore was 
Colonel Tarbert’s name. 

Keplacing the card in its envelope Glender put it in 


60 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


his pocket, lay back in the carriage and gazed absently 
out of the window. Broad fields, where the verdure of 
young spring shot from the Brown earth, comfortable 
homesteads half hidden among orchard trees, red- 
roofed cottages enclosed by well-trimmed hedges, 
churches with square towers, chapels with tall spires, 
cattle standing knee-deep in clover, boys fishing in 
canals, children playing in fair meadow lands, youths 
bathing in a pond, hamlets in sheltered valleys, manor- 
houses surrounded by woods — all swept past Glender’s 
sight unheeded. The WTiting on the envelope acted 
as a talisman, by which he travelled faster than steam 
might carry him. Space and time were for him anni- 
hilated ; the present vanished, the past existed, 
peopled by faces and forms familiar to its days, but 
known no more. The defiant look in his eyes died out 
like fires extinguished, the hard lines round his mouth 
softened. 

By degrees he was roused from his reflections by the 
regular snoring of a fellow-passenger opposite him. 
A young man, with his head thrown back and his 
mouth wide open, was sleeping soundly. On the rug 
wrapped round his knees lay a novel with a sensational 
picture on one cover. This attracted Glender, and 
stretching forward he lightly removed the book, and 
read its title and author’s name, “ Give me Your 
Hand,” by Gal Alex. He started at the coincidence ; 
then opening the volume looked at the title-page, and 
•aw Gal Alex was the writer of half-a-dozen stories 
mentioned. With curiosity and interest he slowly 
turned over the leaves, as if he thought some clue 
to his thoughts might, like a subtle essence, escape 
them. 

By degrees the snoring of his fellow-passenger sub- 
sided, the young man moved uneasily, and then 
opened his eyes. 


JACOB GLENDEB'S MISSION. 


61 


"Beg your pardon,” said Glender, "I have been 
looking at this book whilst you slept.” 

The youth nodded drowsily. 

"Good novel?” asked Glender, who having no ac- 
quaintance with fiction, regarded it with wholesome 
contempt. To him all novels were fairy tales written 
for grown-up children. 

“ It is interesting.” 

Glender hesitated, and then with an anxiety he 
strove to conceal asked, "Is Gal Alex the name of a 
man or a woman ? ” 

" I don’t know ; it sounds like a nom de 'plume, I 
should say from its style the book was written by a man.” 

" But you are not certain ? ” 

"No.” 

Glender offered the volume to its owner, who being 
desirous of another nap, declined it; therefore Jacob 
retained possession, and read it here and there lightly, 
expecting to be bored, after the fashion of a critic. 
Occasionally as he met a sentence seeming strangely 
familiar in its expression, a thought characterized by 
an individuality not wholly new, he laid down the 
novel and thought. And so he continued puzzled and 
anxious until overcome by sleep, he dozed and 
dreamed. The visions presenting themselves to his 
mind were of no pleasant character ; from time to time 
he muttered defiant words, frowned angrily, ground his 
teeth, and at last woke with a cry. 

It was near six o’clock the following evening when 
Jacob Glender arrived at the village of Ballyfrain. The 
atmosphere was rife with a sense of profound calm and 
happy rest, emphasized by the notes of a solitary thrush 
hidden in the branches of a sycamore tree. Ballyfrain 
was built upon a hill, at the foot of which stood the 
rural inn ; entrance to this hostel was gained by a porch 
supported by pillars, and surmounted by the arms of the 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


house of Kerry carved in wood, and painted in colours 
once brilliant, now faded. Three steps led from the 
porch to the public room, flanked on one side by the bar, 
with its painted barrels and shining rows of glasses. By 
the opposite wall stood a long deal table, white from 
frequent scouring ; beside it, on either side, forms of 
equal length. To the right a winding stair led to the 
upper part of the house, whilst a door to the left com- 
municated with an apartment known as the parlour, 
where the gentry drank grog on market days and 
visitors had their meals served. 

In this room, with its sanded floor, spotless muslin 
curtains half covering its small paned windows, pots of 
musk and fuchsia, Grlender had dined. The meal 
enjoyed and despatched, he had grown weary of his lone- 
liness, and anxious to fulfil his mission, sauntered into 
the public room. The landlady, a young and buxom 
bride, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, smiled at him 
pleasantly from behind the bar. 

“ Is the place always so quiet as this ? ” he asked, 
feeling solitude somewhat irksome. 

“ No, sir,” she answered, “ but the company seldom 
comes here before nine o’clock, save on Sunday even- 
ings.” 

He raised his eyes towards an ancient time-piece 
in a mahogany case, standing within the bar like a 
privileged friend. It was half- past eight. 

‘‘ The clock is fast, I have me doubts,” she said, “ for 
the post-boy comes down from the Hall at quarter-past- 
eight leg’lar, and I haven’t seen sight of him yet.” 

“ Then a mail leaves Ballyfrain to-night ? ” 

“ No, but one goes out at five in the morning, and 
the letters from the Hall are posted at half-past eight ; 
and any that come by the six train are taken to his 
lordship.” 

This was information which Grlender needed j he would 


JACOB GLENDEB'S MISSION. 


63 


post his letter to Colonel Tarbert immediately# " The 
post-office is near ? ” he asked. 

“ Half-way np the hill.” 

“ A pretty place,” said Glender, moving towards the 
door and glancing at the white-washed houses, each 
surrounded by its strip of garden. 

“Yes, sir; his lordship likes to have it called the 
model village, Some London newspaper men were over 
here last year and praised it, and his lordship was so 
pleased he wrote to thank them.” 

Glender sauntered into the street and ascended the 
hill. He had not gone many yards when he saw a man 
in semi- livery with a leather bag strapped round his 
shoulders advancing towards him, They met at the 
post office, and Glender, taking the forged letter from 
his pocket, dropped it into the box. With a light heart 
he proceeded on his way, rejoicing as he went, and half 
an hour later returned by a circuitous route to the inn. 
The bar was lighted by a couple of lamps, whilst a third, 
tin-shaded and hanging from the beamed ceiling, half 
revealed the figures of a dozen men sitting round the 
deal table. Glender’s coming seemed to have been 
anticipated, and a rustle of gratified expectancy wel- 
comed him. At a glance he saw they chiefly consisted 
of out-door retainers belonging to a great house, and 
was not sorry to have an opportunity of hearing some 
details of the family they served. Having greeted them 
collectively, ordered some beer, and filled his pipe, he 
seated himself at the end of one of the long forms, 
and opened the conversation by remarks on the weather. 

“Thrue for you, an’ ’tis a grand time for the 
country,” said a man sitting opposite Glender. Short, 
thick, hedge-like whiskers protected a face which though 
wrinkled, preserved an expression of youthfulness 
derived from lack of thought and absence of vice. The 
upper part of his body was clad in a corduroy waistcoat 


64 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


with sleeves, a spotted handkerchief was w 
his neck, and a shapeless cap pushed on the 
head. He was evidently the spokesman of 
and was addressed by his companions as Dan, 

“ I’ll make so bould as to say you’re a stranger to 
these parts,” he remarked to Glender. 

“ I have not been here before.” 

‘‘ I thought as much,” said Dan, glancing at his friends 
to ascertain if they remarked his shrewdness ; conscious- 
ness of which made his eyes twinkle in self-congratula- 
tion. 

“ An’ I venture to say now, you knows how to handle 
the reins.” 

“ Well,” replied Glender, smiling as he remembered 
some phases of his Oxford days, “ I have done some 
coaching in my time.” 

Dan smiled at his companions with the air of a bar- 
rister impressing a favourable point on a jury. 

“ Maybe,” he continued, “ you’re in search of a job ? ” 

“Well, I have just finished one.” 

Dan slapped one hand on his right knee to mark the 
satisfaction he felt at his keenness. Those around 
whispered favourable comments on his abilities as an 
observer ; he rose in the opinion of his fellows. 

“ Well,” said he, “ you’ve come to a bad place in search 
o’ work. There’s only one family hereabouts worth 
talking of, a mighty reputed family, that sticks to ould 
ways, an’ has them in its service as were with them man 
an’ boy, an’ their fathers afore them. Meself has been 
in the stables these forty year, an’ me father was there 
too, as long as he lived.” 

“Things differed in his day,” added the under- 
gardener reflectively. 

“ Sure enough,” answered a voice from the shade. 

“ I suppose you’re speaking of Lord Kerry’s place ?* 
remarked Glender. 


JACOB GLENBEB’S MISSION. 


65 


“What else,” replied Dan, 

“ And you say things have changed with the family,” 
continued Jacob, who began to fear Colonel TarberCs 
account of his father’s wealth was exaggerated. “ Is 
the present lord poor ? ” 

A wood-ranger at the lower end of the table laughed 
scornfully^ and set the stranger down as one steeped in 
ignorance. 

Dan being more compassionate, condescended to ex- 
plain. “No,” said he, “ there never was one richer of 
his name. No better landlord lives, an’ his rents are paid 
reg’lar ; but since her ladyship’s death he lives quiet.” 

“ Well, his father was a gay man, an’ a’most ruined 
hisself,” said the under-gardener, “ I heered tell how he 
druve the king as was in his day, with the crown on his 
head, ’an the unicorn an’ lion at his feet, all through 
London town in a coach an’ six : an’ a grand sight it 
was.” 

“ It must have been,” remarked Glender quietly, 

“But the present lord,” said Dan, “never cared for 
the company o’ kings an’ horses an’ the like, but lived 
always steady an’ wise an’ respectable.” 

“An’ Lord Tralee, a poor sick-hearted man,” con- 
tinued the under-gardener, with a ring of contempt in 
his voice, “ he takes after his father.” 

“ We never see much of him,” added Dan. “ He 
lives mostly in foreign parts, which don’t seem natural 
for such as he.” 

“An’ did you ever hear nothin’ of him ? ” asked the 
under-gardener mysteriously. 

“No,” replied Glender, his curiosity aroused. 

“ Weil, they do say,” said Dan, and then pausing he 
turned towards his friends as if waiting their ac- 
quiescence before communicating his news. 

“Aye, tell him,” said a chorus of voices. 

“ Well, they do say he wrote a book o’ rhyme?, but 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


he wouldn’t put his name to it, fearing them as makes 
money by the like should be ashamed of such good 
company.” 

‘‘Aye, he was always a considerate man.” 

“ Where is he now ? ” asked Glender. 

“ Above in the Hall ; he came home a week ago to- 
day, isn’t it, Ned ? ” 

“ Aye, a week ago sure enough as the church clock 
struck two ; an’ he brought a foreign man with him as 
his vallet, an’ he comes from parts that distant, that 
spake to him as loud as you plaze, the never a word he 
understands o’ what you’re saying.” 

“ Is he an Indian ? ” Glender inquired. 

“ Well, not so much as that ; he’s dressed in Christian 
clothes right enough.” 

“ I suppose Lord Tralee will soon marry ? ” 

“I have me doubts o’ that,” answered Dan. “A 
man as delicate as him has no heart for marriage.” 

“ Hasn’t Lord Kerry another son ? ” queried Glender. 

“ Sure enough he has, the colonel. They say he’d 
spend a hatful o’ gould every day if he had it ; but 
he was never a favourite with the ould lord, an’ it’s a 
tight rein he holds on him.” 

“ I suppose he comes here sometimes ? ” 

“Well, not often; and may be,” added Dan reflec- 
tively, “ it’s better for the village he didn’t.” 

As he finished speaking the sound of a horse’s hoofs 
galloping at great speed fell upon their ears, and then 
ceased. The under-gardener going to the door looked 
down the street, where in the faint light he saw a horse 
and its rider draw up at a low square house. The rider 
dismounted, and in a couple of minutes another man 
came hurriedly from the dwelling, vaulted into the 
saddle, and rode hurriedly up the hill. 

“ It’s some one for the doctor, an’ he’s gone towards 
the HaU,” said the under-gardener. 


JACOB GLENDEB’S MISSION. , 67 

His companions rose from the table, and coming into 
the street, stood round the porch. Glender followed 
them. The man who had ridden for the doctor was 
now seen walking quickly up the hill. Dan went 
forward, questioned him eagerly, and presently re- 
turned with a sober air and solemn face. 

“ It’s the ould lord has a fit an’ is dying,” he said. 

A chorus of murmurs greeted his words. The news 
spread rapidly through the village. A young moon 
rose in the sky, the hill was chequered by light and 
shadow, the air grew soft and balmy with the scent of 
laburnum and sycamore trees. Men and women stood 
in mournful groups before their houses, awed by the 
evil new’s suddenly conveyed to them concerning one 
they regarded with affection. Mentally they specu- 
lated about their future fate under his successor. A 
second groom galloped speedily down the hill in search 
of a dispensary doctor. They listened in silence to the 
sound of his horse’s hoofs along the high road till it 
was lost in distance. The succeeding stillness seemed 
ominous. Women whose lives the kindly old man had 
brightened, prayed for him now in his hour of need ; 
men recounted his good deeds. The church clock 
struck eleven with a sonorous tone like the voice of 
Time itself. At such an hour the village was usually 
wrapped in slumber, now none thought of retirement 
or rest ; all awaited a feared event. As no news came 
from the Hall the under-gardener volunteered to make 
inquiries, and set forward for the purpose. As he did 
a solitary figure was seen in the semi-light to pass 
down the hill, pause before the church, and unlock its 
heavy iron gateway leading to the grave-yard. Then 
suddenly the church bell began to toll — softly as if 
reluctant to bear sad news ; solemnly as became sounds 
imparting a message of death. 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AWAKENING. 

In the month of August Philip Amerton and IMiriam 
Netley were married in the church of St. Mary Abbots, 
Kensington. Mrs. Netley had given a reluctant con- 
sent to the union. Immediately after the ceremony 
the bride and bridegroom had departed for the conti- 
nent, where they proposed making a prolonged stay. 
They had spent the autumn in Germany, the winter in 
Rome, and now in March had taken up their residence 
in Florence. 

During the seven months which had elapsed since 
their union, a change not less subtle than certain had 
occurred in Amerton’s existence. For the first weeks 
of his married life a heretofore unknown happiness 
filled his days. The calmness of irrecoverable decision 
succeeding changeful resolution, fell upon him sooth- 
ingly. Peace sat enthroned in his heart as light in 
the sun ; and for him all nature became articulate with 
words of gladness. Looking hopefully forward to years 
of perfect felicity, intensified his present bliss. The 
woman he loved was his source of happiness ; the day- 
light of his soul shone from her eyes; her footsteps 
paved the world with joy. 

Could this dream have continued, life would have 
held for him no future sorrow, the world no care. But 
as in lighter sleep the consciousness of external sur- 
roundings blend with our imaginings, so he, knowing 
the uncertainty of human felicity, became fearful its 
duration might be brief for him ; and his very fears the 
sooner aroused him from placid contentment. With 
this awakening he had struggled hard, shutting his 
eyes as it were against the cold light of dawn, like one 
just roused from slumber seeking fresh repose. He 


AWAltEKlNO. 


strove in vain to lull his senses to their former state ; 
the happy dreams would not return again. 

Slowly and gradually a numbing sense of disappoint- 
ment fatal to ardent love crept into his life. By 
degrees the cruel truth broke on his mind that in the 
fervour of his imagination he had idealized his wife 
even as a painter spiritualizes a picture. It was painful 
to feel, she who was nearest to him amongst his kind, 
dearest to him by laws human and divine, failed to 
understand him. His morbid introspection and keen 
sensibility exaggerated a grief which a philosopher 
would have accepted as an attribute of matrimony, or 
a man of the world regarded as relief. Some subtle 
link was lacking in the chain which should have bound 
their lives in a supreme harmony. This truth was 
forced upon him daily in ways small in themselves yet 
irresistible in their conviction. Now it was a thought 
he expressed she failed to follow ; a feeling with which 
she could not sympathize; an enthusiasm she was 
unable to share. Objects or sights which awoke in him 
emotions of profound reverence or vivid joy, left her 
cold and indifferent ; pleasures and pains that moved 
him strongly, escaped her less sensitive perceptions. 
Morning sunlight in a southern sky made the world 
full young to him ; the moon with her airy light and 
mystic shadows lulled him to strange reveries. To her 
mind they caused neither vigorous elation nor dreamy 
delight. 

Lacking gifts he possessed she could not enter with 
him into the world of imagination and phantasy which 
filled so large a space in his life ; and when he would 
have soared, a commonplace phrase, a jarring word, a 
senseless laugh, dragged him back shocked and pained 
to earth. His senses responded to finer influences than 
hers. 

Because of her fresh beauty and a certain impulsive- 


70 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


ness of manner he had loved her ; and loving, had 
credited her with depths of feeling and subtle insights 
she never possessed. His imagination had blinded and 
deceived him, and he must suffer for his mistake. 
She could neither fathom the depths of his nature nor 
reach the heights of his love. With a heart too meagre 
for great affection, a mind too shallow for aught 
but reflection of the passing hour, she was powerless to 
banish isolation from his life ; he was still desolate as 
before they had met. There were hours when, though 
she clung to him, he felt utterly alone ; moments when, 
though she were present, a sense of solitude over- 
whelmed him with depression. At such times he 
would, by dwelling on his past life and speaking of his 
future hopes, plead as it were to her inner consciousness 
that she might rise to the summit of his higher nature, 
where companionship, inseparable in all things, might 
be obtained. But unable to divine his thoughts, she 
remained unaware she was not all to him she had been 
in the near past. Her lack of perception afforded him 
relief, and he conscientiously strove to sustain the 
illusion, though it cost continual strain. 

On consideration he persuaded himself the blame of 
his disappointment lay more in his own nature than in 
his wife’s lack of finer feelings. Intellect, he was 
aware, largely absorbs the power of loving. Certain it 
is with men of imagination, the brain with its world of 
phantasies, predominates over the heart with its natural 
affections. The swain loves better than the citizen; 
the man of denser mind than his more excitable brother. 
Something in the intangible airy nature of genius, a 
gift largely dependent on a peculiarly nervous and 
emotional organization, prevents its possessor, not from 
loving fervidly, but from loving long. His ardour is a 
meteor flashing with a brilliancy that exhausts its 
radiance. His passion may endure for a week or a yeaxi 


AWAKENING. 


n 


bnt sooner or later comes awakening, weariness, re- 
action, and regret. Fear and self-pity at thraldom, 
anxiety and longing for escape beset him. Few men 
and women with sacred fire in their hearts make loyal 
and loving spouses. Wherefore this should be, Grod 
knows. 

Days there were when the consideration • of his lost 
liberty weighed heavily upom Amerton. He was no 
longer a free agent accountable to himself alone for his 
acts; he had taken another life to himself, for the 
happiness or misery of which he was amenable. 
Formerly his sense of liberty, of irresponsibility, had 
been his delight ; now, though the burden was of his 
own choosing, he was weighted ; though his chain was 
golden, he was fettered. A little while before the world 
lay all before him ; now the space allotted him was a 
narrow limit, bounded by the interests and inclinations 
of another being. The possibilities of life which had 
before helped to make it endurable, could hold no part 
in his existence since he had by marriage reached a 
climax in his fate. His youth seemed far removed as 
a distant landscape, and he looked back upon it with 
wistfulness, as a bird may peer Tw’ixt golden bars on 
leafy woods. 

The glamour cast on his senses had for a time blinded 
him to the higher tendencies of his nature, making him 
relinquish limitless possibilities. Knowledge and 
power had been offered him, the secrets of nature were 
within his grasp, and in a moment of weakness he had 
turned from them to enjoy pleasures fleeting as a 
summer day, illusory as a morning dream. Instead of 
acquiring gifts that might have raised him above his 
kind, he had yielded to human love, and lost the real 
for the unreal. 

Such thoughts rose to the surface of his mind as he 
leaned over the centre arch of the Ponte Vecchio in 


A MODEHN MAGICIAN. 


# 

73 

Florence at an hour near midnight. He had spent the 
day in company with his wife at Fiesole, and had, 
longing for solitude when night descended, wandered 
alone through the quiet streets of the Tuscan capital. 
Passing the monastery of Santa Maria Novello, he had 
strolled leisurely towards the Piazza della Signoria, 
thence onward to the quays, and entering on the 
bridge, paused midway to follow the bent of his melan- 
choly thoughts. 

The moon had risen hours before, and now filled the 
cloudless sky and sleeping city with silver light. The 
Palazzo Vecchio lay deep in shadow as if mourning for 
the blood-stained scenes it had witnessed in bygone 
ages. The Arno, mirror-like, reflected the glory of 
white light, and bore the blurred shadows of this 
ancient bridge, with its heavy buttresses and now 
deserted shops. 

Florence was at this hour silent as a city of the dead. 
In domes and towers of convents, monasteries, and 
churches, bells which had rung throughout the day. 
with musical rhythm, now rested like singers tired of 
song. The clatter and hum of commerce had subsided 
like the tumult of a theatrical street scene when the 
curtain descends. The fever and fret of life had 
vanished, ebbed out as it were, with dying day ; the 
passions of love and hate, greed and grudge slumbered, 
to awake with fresh force on the morrow. And here, 
wakeful while others slept, stood Amerton, a lonely 
figure, pondering over the troubled mystery of exis- 
tence. 

What, he wondered, was this emotion called happi- 
ness which all men sought and few men found ; this 
elixir of life evading the search of philosophers and 
pedants, to seek the unsophisticated and the peasant ; 
abiding not with wealth but endowing poverty ; flying 
from civilization and dwelling with nature ? Men had 


AWAKEmfTG. 


73 


in quest of it amidst desolate forests or within walls of 
monasteries, forsaken home and friends, opulence and 
honour. Savage tribes, inhabiting trackless regions, 
children of the elements, loyal and loving sons of 
nature, obedient to her teachings in all things, pos- 
sessed its delights. The scarce more civilized pea- 
sant, the sane and healthful tiller of earth, whose books 
are writ in changing skies and the seasons’ signs, whose 
pleasures crown his toils, whose pride is strength, 
whose simple faith holds naught with doubt, who in 
the fullness of his days lies down in the dust from 
which he sprung, unfretted by fears, hopeful of peace, 
tasted its joys. But before the footsteps of a civiliza- 
tion fretting men’s minds with thoughts that harass, 
forcing them to unravel dark problems of fate, firing 
their brains with fevers knowing no allay, filling their 
hearts with dark doubts and questioning scepticisms, 
wearing their bodies with pleasures that speedily turn 
to pain yet long outlive desire, happiness vanished. 
Was there no escape from such a life ? 

He thought of Benoni, the man of wisdom and 
mystery, to whom his mind had lain open as a book, 
whose words had stirred depths within him such as the 
language of other men had left untouched, whose pre- 
sence had quieted the tumult of his thoughts, whose 
promises had filled him with hope. “If there live 
within you,” the mystic had written, whilst yet the 
fatal step in his life had not been taken, “ strong desires 
for spiritual attainments, unconquerable yearnings for 
hidden knowledge, come to me and I shall set your 
footsteps on the pathway leading to light inextinguish- 
able.” And from this offer he had turned away. Could 
he but see Benoni now and confess the error he had 
made. But, alas, that could avail him nothing : he had 
sealed his own fate. 

The clock from some neighbouring church chimed 


74 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


midniglit. Slowly and sadly Amerton moved away, 
and leaving the old stone bridge, walked along the 
quays towards his hotel. Scarce had he proceeded a 
dozen paces when, dimly seen in the shadows of tall 
houses, a solitary figure approaching arrested his atten- 
tion. From the dress in which the man was clad 
Amerton at first believed him a monk returning from 
visiting the dying or praying by the dead, but as he 
drew nearer some familiar movement of the gliding 
tread caused him to stand still in expectation and 
astonishment. In another second the figure paused 
beneath a shrine, whose lamp threw flickering rays 
upon the sad, dark face of Benoni. 

“It is I,” he said, spreading his hands upon his 
breast in greeting. 

“ Dear friend,” exclaimed Philip, “ I have longed to 
see you.” 

“ And I am here. Wherefore are you surprised ? 
Have you already forgotten my words ? ” 

“ Some of them I remember too well for my own peace.” 

“ Did I not sayj in answer to the summons of your 
desires I should be with you ? ” 

“ How did my desires become known to you ? ” 

“ The soul invisible, intangible, subtle, incompre- 
hensible, potent, is to the body what harmony is to the 
Ijrra. Its strings were touched ; I caught their echo 
afar, and I am here.” 

Amerton looked at his dark impenetrable features, 
on which the red light flickered, and a thrill begotten 
neither of cold nor fear shot through him. By common 
consent they moved from the spot, and entering on the 
bridge, gained the centre arch, where Philip had stood 
a few minutes ago gazing on the waters, chequered by 
light and shadow. 

“ And,” said Amerton, “ the echo having passed out 
of my soul, you know the burden of its strain,” 


AWAKENIKG. 


rs 

" I know you are not happy ; nay, my friend, I had 
foreseen you would not be content.” 

“Then,” replied Amerton reproachfully, “why did 
you not act the part of a friend and warn me ? ” 

“ My words would have been lost in the ardour of 
your passion, and never reached the consciousness to 
which they were addressed.” 

“ I was fated to marry ? ” 

“ Marriage was a probability in your life. No man, 
no matter how clear his sight into future events, might 
predict your union as a certainty. Until a foretold 
event is accomplished, it is not a fact. It lay in your 
power to avoid the possibility; you aided it of your own 
free will.” 

“ And the result is bitter disappointment and keen 
regret.” 

“Life’s shadows,” said Benoni sadly, his rich voice 
subdued like music heard from afar. 

Amerton looked down at the blurred reflection of the 
bridge upon the glittering tide, whose ripple, striking 
against the heavy buttresses, made a faint symphony in 
the silent night. 

“Were you happy,” continued the mystic, after a 
pause, “you would be an exception to humanity, an 
outcast from your kind, having no kin with the world 
at large.” 

“ Why is humanity bereft of happiness ? ” Philip 
asked. 

“My friend, the All Merciful were cruel were His 
children shut out from happiness. It is not beyond 
their reach, but seeking in external circumstances that 
which lies within them, they possess it not. Have you 
never heard heaven is a disposition, not a place? A 
king in his palace may be as miserable as a beggar in 
his hovel. Not rank nor riches, obscurity nor poverty, 
have power to create or banish bliss. The kingdom of 


76 


A MODEEN MAGICIAFT. 


felicity lies in eacli man’s heart : its name is content- 
ment.” 

At the mystic’s words, spoken with compassion, many 
thoughts drifted through Amerton’s mind. He had 
sought happiness by binding another life to his own, 
and behold he had leant upon a reed. He had fled 
from the solitude of his own heart, and peace had 
deserted him. Knowledge, the key to all power, had 
been offered him, and he had withheld his hand. 
Truly, his mistake was fatal, his disappointment 
keen. 

“ What I most regret,” he said aloud, “ is that the 
possibilities of the life once open to me are closed for 
ever.” 

“ Yet if you still were free, and the choice offered 
you some months ago lay before you again, your reply 
would be the same. Precept seldom, but experience 
ever teaches.” 

“ It has taught me,” he answered bitterly. 

“Nay, my friend,” said Benoni gently, “you have 
yet much to learn.” 

“ Then teach me,” demanded Amerton. 

“ Kemember what I said but a second ago concern- 
ing precept and experience.” 

Amerton looked down on the shining waters ; when 
he raised his eyes again, Benoni was observing him as 
if he would read his thoughts. 

“You have voluntarily taken upon yourself respon- 
sibilities you must now fulfil. Meanwhile neglect 
not to cultivate your higher nature. Elevate your 
heart towards Him who sleepeth not, nor dieth ; Him 
with whom rest the keys of all secret things. He will 
kindle a light within your soul which shall guide you 
through paths of doubt and darkness.” 

“ Tell me,” said Amerton eagerly, “ is it impossible 
for me, having entered these bonds, to acq^uire occult 


CONCERNING LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 77 

knowledge; to train the latent powers within me to 
perfectic-u ? ” 

“Not impossible. Ask me no more to-night; my 
time is short.” 

“ Wl^en shall I see you again ? ” 

“ Some weeks hence.” 

“ Not to-morrow?” asked Amerton, disappointedly. 

“No,” answered Benoni, shrinking within the 
shadows of an archway. 

Amerton regarded him, and from having, as he 
believed, had his eyes so long fixed upon the running 
water, imagined Benoni’s figure flickered and wavered 
before his gaze. The dark face became ethereal, the 
lustrous eyes clouded, the curves and folds of his gar- 
ment blended with night. 

“ Benoni,” he cried aloud, startled and amazed. 

Yes,” replied the mystic, stepping forward, and 
instantly his figure became revivified and solid once 
more, so that Amerton mentally reproached himself 
for the delusion his imagination had conceived. 

“ It is near morning,” said Benoni, “ and I must away.” 

Amerton left the archway and stepped forward to 
make room for Benoni on the narrow pathway, but no 
footfall sounded on his ear, and, turning round, he saw 
he was alone. 

“Benoni,” he cried out. But the only answer 
which came to him was the chime of many clocks 
ringing the first hour of day. 


CHAPTEE VII. 

CONCERNING LOVE AND MARRIAGE, 

The late Lord Kerry, whose death had taken place on 
the evening of Jacob Glender’s visit to Ballyfrain, had 


A MODEEN MAGICIAN. 


7 « 

a younger brother, who in youth entered the army and 
spent many years in India. Eeturning from the East 
before his fiftieth year, with a ruined constitution, he 
had sold his commission and married a lady much 
younger than himself. And having begotten’ a son, 
he in a timely hour made his bow to an unappreciative 
world, and entered into the shades to receive rewards 
due to his deserts. 

This son, Ulic Tarbert, was reared by his devoted 
mother, whose gentle disposition and good sense he 
largely inherited. Neither in appearance nor character 
did he resemble his father. Ulic had advanced in 
years a robust-minded lad, with little imagination but 
much gentleness, conceiving clear views of life, un- 
likely to be obscured or changed by the world’s glare 
or opinion. The bent of a mind eagerly investigating 
all things coming within its observation, led him 
towards scientific pursuits, and of his own choice he 
elected to become a civil engineer. 

My Lord Kerry, w^ho had taken a kindly interest in 
the lad, which gradually ripened to friendship, had 
defrayed his college expenses, for which reason, as 
well as from his kinsmanship, he conceived himself 
entitled to select Ulic’s profession. He was therefore 
displeased at this departure made by a scion of his 
house. Younger members had heretofore chosen to serve 
the church or enter the army, and Lord Kerry urged 
him to do likewise. The days of army patronage were 
over, it is true, but in the church his lordship had fat 
livings at his disposal. Ulic, however, had no liking 
for the art of warfare, and but scant reverence for 
the church temporal, and therefore declined following 
his uncle’s advice. The head of the house had then 
suggested law as a profession not unworthy of his 
favourite ; but Ulic had made his choice, and clear- 
sighted and strong-willed, resolved to follow its bent, 


COXCERNING LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 


79 


holding that in the selection of a calling or choice of a 
wife a man should be guided by his own wishes rather 
than by the judgment of his friends. 

Before leaving college the great sorrow of his life 
had fallen on him in the death of his mother. He was 
now alone in the world, but bis sense of solitude in- 
creased a resolve to beat out his life to the pattern of 
his desires. Leaving the university before taking his 
degrees he apprenticed himself to a firm of engineers, 
and shrank from no labour, avoided no hardship which 
might gain him experience in his calling. His 
mother’s fortune of six hundred a year had been left 
to him, and loving independence and trusting to suc- 
cess, he had declined a further annuity which Lord 
Kerry had offered him. Having qualified as an en- 
gineer he had taken offices in the Sanctuary, West- 
minster, and starting on his own responsibility, pros- 
pered exceedingly wdth progress of time. 

He was wmrking in one of these rooms one 
morning in April when he was disturbed by a rap 
at the door ; before he had time to reply a man 
entered. 

“Amerton,” he said, jumping from his chair and 
going forward eagerly to meet his friend, “ I’m so glad 
to see you. I had no idea you were in town.” 

They shook hands heartily. 

“ We have been back three weeks.” 

The plural pronoun reminded Tarbert his friend 
was no longer a single man. 

“ You are both well, I hope.” 

“ Yes, thanks,” replied Amerton briefly; “and how 
are you ? ” 

“ I am well. The history of my life may be summed 
up in two words — hard work. Sit down in this easy- 
chair and make yourself comfortable.” 

“ Any news since I left ? ” asked Amerton* 


80 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ Not mucli. My uncle’s will has been proved ; he 
left me ten thousand pounds.” 

“ ]My dear fellow, I congratulate you.” 

“The colonel was merely left a thousand a year; 
you know he had previously been allowed eight hun- 
dred, so the advance is not considerable. But he 
seems in good spirits and in no want of money. I 
always avo'd him when I can ; the loathsome brutalitj’’ 
and cruel cynicism of the man jars upon me. Poor 
Tralee, who is now Lord Kerry, has had a paralytic 
stroke, and has come to live in town. You must meet 
him some d y; I know you would agree admirably. 
How the same parents could produce such dissimilar 
men as been always a wonder to me ; it’s one of the 
psychological problems that must give us pause. I 
like Kerry n uch, and we have always been friends. 
Pity he has si ch bad health. Now,” he added, “ tell 
me all about yourselves.” 

“Not to-day,” answered Amerton uneasily. “ I was 
passing, and thought I would look in and see you. 
How strangely familiar the room looks, it seems as if 
I had seen it but yesterday.” 

“ Where are you staying ? ” 

“ I have taken a house in Campden Hill Koad, close 
by High Street, Kensington ; when we are settled you 
must come up and dine with us and we shall have a 
long chat.” 

“ Ah, what a lucky fellow you are ! ” 

“ Lucky, why ? ” 

“You are married,” replied Ulic Tarbert simply. 

“ Oh, yes, of course, I had forgotten. But then 
marriage is a blessing within reach of every man.” 

“ Not perhaps with the woman he wishes to make 
his wife.” 

“ Well if not, with the wife who desires to make him 
her husband.” 


CONCEENINQ LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 81 

Amerto ’s words jarred slightly on his friend’s ears. . 

“ There’s a difference I confess. Now your honey- 
moon has aned,” continued Ulic, 1 hope you will no 
longer be a dreamer amongst men.” 

“ It’s not easy to change one’s nature.” 

“ But having gained your wishes, you need no longer 
sigh for the moon. You have some one to stimulate 
your efforts, rejoice in your successes, soothe your 
weariness — ” 

‘‘ It strikes me Tarbert you are in love, and you 
picture I have all you desire.” 

‘‘ In love,” repeated Ulic, laughing at the idea ; 
“ why I’m no more in love now than when I saw you 
* last.” 

“ Which may have been a good deal for all I know 
to the contrary.” 

‘'Will you come out and have lunch with me?” 
ass:ed Ulic abruptly. 

“ Thanks, it’s impossible to-day ; I have an engage- 
ment at half-past one, and I must be off now.” 

When he had departed Ulic Tarbert sat down, but 
not to work. Thoughts entered into his mind which 
urged him to resolution. 

Amongst his numerous and varied acquaintances 
were numbers of the opposite sex who became desper- 
ately anxious for his welfare, which to their minds 
alone consisted in the married state. Matrons with 
grown-up daughters loved him as a son and wooed him 
as a son-in-law. Maidens gentle and kind there were 
whose virginal hearts went out to him unsolicited, who 
would gladly have devoted themselves to his weal for 
sake of his income. But the tenderness so freely 
show'n him he neither appreciated nor returned, and 
had wandered fetterless and fancy-free until he had 
encountered Gal Alex. 

From the hour of their meeting life had changed for 


82 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


him. To his sight the world had altered from a 
cominoDplace planet peopled with uninteresting inhabi- 
tants to a glorious sphere bright with possibilities of 
unrealized happiness. As seeds under sun-rays spring 
to flower, so what was best in his nature quickened 
under the warmth of love. Gal Alex had become the 
central object of his existence, round which his 
thoughts and hopes daily grouped themselves. But 
this new-found emotion was not a source of un- 
chequered bliss. It had brought him happiness, but 
not peace ; it had filled him with hope, but likewise 
with fear. For if Gal Alex had become aware of his 
affection she made no sign of her comprehension, 
though in a thousand ways he had striven to make its • 
existence known. 

That she would not understand him was plain. 
Believing it is as impossible for a woman to conceal as 
to counterfeit love, he had tried to read her heart ; and 
though at times a word softly spoken, a look in her 
eyes, the pressure of her hand, seemed to indicate a 
warm feeling, yet her general manner towards him 
preserved what he considered a cool equilibrium of 
indifference. No man could love her more honestly, 
few men more fervently than he, but he reflected sadly, 
women were unreasoning, impulsive creatures, who 
frequently cared least for those who loved them best. 

His indecision regarding her feelings became torture, 
and he resolved to learn his fate and end his doubt. 

A couple of weeks from the day on which Amerton had 
visited him, he drove to Kensington and called on Gal 
Alex. It was the one afternoon in the week she 
devoted to receiving her friends. On Ulic Tarbert’s 
entrance he found the drawing-room crowded, princi- 
pally with women. Each man present had his little 
circle of female worshippers, who echoed his words, 
reflected his smiles, and chaunted a chorus of laudation. 


CONCEllNINO LOVE AND MARRIAGE. IS 

of which he and his achievements were the theme 
and motive. The representatives of mankind here 
assembled were scarce healthy specimens of the sex ; 
and broad-shouldered, frank-faced Ulic Tarbert felt 
grateful he was not of their class. 

His hostess had given him her hand in greeting, 
and with one bright glance assured him more fully 
than words could express of his welcome. Whilst he 
was building strong hopes on the foundation of this 
look, she inquired in a common-place manner if he 
would have some tea, and without waiting for reply 
handed him a dainty cup containing a spoonful of the 
beverage which cheers so many hearts in afternoon 
hours. 

“ I suppose you have seen the Amertons since their 
return?” 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered. 

“ I have not,” said Mrs. Rochester, a showily-dressed 
portly woman, who had recourse to art where nature 
failed to please her. “ He will of course follow his wife 
about like a note of admiration for the first few months 
of their married life.” 

“ They have already been wedded eight months.” 

“ Oh, then,” she replied with a musical laugh, “ he 
will avoid her, and she will treat him with the supreme 
indifference which only a married woman can entertain 
for the man she has sworn to love, honour and obey.” 

Mrs. Rochester had in early life united herself with 
a man she detested, yet lived with on terms of perfect 
p'ace and seeming indifference before the world. 
Other women there are who, mated likewise, remain 
loyal, principally for the sake of throwing their hus- 
band’s vices into broader relief, and triumphing over 
the frailties of their friends. But Mrs. Rochester, who 
possessed much common sense, soared above such petty, 
ungenerous, and selfish revenge; and with impulsive 

) 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

liberality bestowed tbe tenderness due to her spouse on 
many favoured members of his sex. Clever, witty, and 
vivacious, society eagerly welcomed her company and 
soundly abused her character; a proceeding she re- 
turned by accepting its flatteries and repaying its 
detractions. 

Born with a talent for scandal, she cultivated and 
exercised it, the better to please the friends of those 
she reviled. Indeed, her insinuations were frequently 
uttered, not so much from the desire of injuring those 
absent as of amusing these present ; that the eflfect was 
equally fatal was a detail unworthy of her consideration. 
Yet none could charge her with uttering gross libels, 
even concerning those she hated most ; her touch was 
ever delicate and skilful, like PYench art, leaving room 
for imagination to complete what outlines suggested. 
Though her personal history contained many shady 
chapters, her position in society remained unshaken. 
She had never wantonly outraged the conventionalities, 
she had ever vivaciously entertained her friends. All 
men admired her, and there were some women who did 
not hate her. Celebrities continually frequented her 
salon, and the world followed them thither. Under 
happier circumstances she might have been a better 
woman ; even as they were, she would have been con- 
tent had her feelings been less keen. To sensitive ears 
her laughter occasionally sounded as a wail ; the tears it 
brought to her eyes might have risen from joy or sorrow. 
It was said she loved best those she slandered most. 

She was talking to a little papier-mache gentleman, 
all collar and legs, with only a few commonplace 
mottoes in his head where brains should have been. 
Exceedingly entertaining to himself, he believed he 
likewise fascinated others, and doled out driblets of 
inanities to all who listened. Mrs. Eochester hastily 
brushed him aside, as one might a fly from the face, 


CONCEBNING LOVE AND MABRUOE. |[5 

when a middle-aged man with a bald head and youth- 
ful face approached her. This was a^)hilosopher of the 
Optimistic school, who having achieved fame, was 
allowed to vent his opinions in the pages of the Nine- 
teenth Century, Innocence abided in his heart ; hope 
dwelt with him as a friend. To every husband he 
preached the doctrine of woman’s fealty, for which 
every wife worshipped him, whilst many sought to con- 
vince him of the errors of his views. 

‘‘ ]Mr. Phelps,” said Mrs. Rochester, making room for 
him beside her on a low ottoman occupying a central 
position in the salon, “we have been talking of the 
Amertons, who have returned, and of love and marriage; 
now pray give us the benefit of your opinions on these 
subjects.” 

“ Which are considered to have world-wide interest,” 
said Gal Alex. 

“Especially for women,” remarked the youthful 
'papier-mache gentleman, his neck wriggling uneasily 
in his collar. 

“Dear Inadam,” replied Mr. Phelps, “not being a 
married man I cannot speak with authority on the 
topic.’* 

“ But those who look on see most of the game,” said 
the hostess. 

“Yet you will say it is only they who have endured 
martyrdom can recount its pains,” added Mrs. Rochester, 
with one of those laughs her friends recognized as the 
danger signals of her speech. 

“No, no,” responded the philosopher seriously, “I 
am far from regarding the married state as a condition 
of torture ; I rather believe it a goal of bliss.” 

“ And your faith has been so strong as to prevent you 
entering the gateway of so much happiness, though it 
has been open to you these twenty years,” remarked 
Mrs. Rochester. 


• A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


m 

Mr. Phelps laughed aud blushed. 

“ Now,” said slTe, “ instead of declaring your faith in 
matrimony, I fancy you should have mentioned your 
fear of the bonds.” 

“ How can we define this latter sentiment,” he re- 
marked by way of turning a conversation becoming too 
personal. “ When Charles V. read on the tomb-stone 
of a Spanish noble an inscription, ‘ Here lies one who 
never knew fear,’ ‘ Then,’ said his majesty, ‘ he never 
snuffed a candle with his fingers.’ ” 

“ Now will you give us your opinion on marriage, 
Mrs. Eochester ? ” asked a young lady in a sad-coloured 
gown. 

‘‘ I cannot, child,” she answered readily. ‘‘ I know 
of only one broad rule which should regulate wedded 
life. It is the duty of every husband to please his wife.” 

‘‘ And of every wife ? ” 

“ To please herself.” 

At this instant a movement took place at the door • 
guests departed and arrived. 

“ Here is Mrs. Netley,” said Mr. Phelps. 

‘‘ A self-made woman,” replied Mrs. Eochester. 

“ A great man tells us ” 

“ Far more than he knows, I warrant.” 

“ That it is better to be self-made than not made at 
all.” 

“ And here is Lord Pompey,” volunteered the young 
lady in sad-coloured garments. 

A bore,” said Mr. Phelps, standing up. 

‘‘All men are bores when you don’t want them.” 

“ He is indeed a happy man,” said the philosopher ; 
“ he falls in love with every woman he meets.” 

“And tries to reduce his age by increasing his folly.” 

Lord Pompey slowly advanced, a perpetual blush on 
his cheeks, a stereotyped smile parting his even rows of 
white teeth. - 


CONCERNING LOVE AND MARRIAGE. rtrf' 

“ How do you do, Lord Pompey ; ” said Mrs. Koches- 
ter holding out her hand. 

“ Ah, my dear lady, how are you ?” he replied ; adding 
in a perfectly audible voice, “ Wonder who the deuce 
she is ; never can remember faces.” 

Will you not sit down, Mr. Phelps has departed.” 

‘‘ Thanks. So tired. We have been to hear the new 
Italian tenor; all tenors are poor to one who has heard 
Mario. Of course I didn’t see him in his prime, but 
shortly before his retirement, when I was a very young 
man.” 

Mrs. Eochester laughed in a manner somewhat dis- 
concerting to Lord Pompey, until she remarked, “Dear 
Lord Pompey, you are still young; your heart will 
never grow old.” 

“ Charming woman,” he said, giving his thoughts the 
benefit of words. Then continued in his conversational 
tone : “ We went to see Lady Draggledrake’s poodle 
performing a waltz to music of Strauss’s band. Wonder- 
ful creature — the poodle ; immense crowd ; quite the 
rage this season ; Lady Draggledrake delightful w’oman ; 
looks eighteen.” ' 

“ Yes, eighteen stone. Was her husband present ?” 

“ Husband — never heard of him.” 

“ It is said he is a most obliging man ; he is never 
seen in his owm house,” said Mrs. Eochester, conveying 
a scandalous history by raising her brows and smiling 
a reputation away. 

“ He, he, he,” laughed Lord Pompey, his simper 
rippling into a thousand wrinkles on his face. 

“ Lady Draggledrake, considering him such an 
excellent man, shows her appreciation for him in her 
admiration for his sex.” 

“Delightful. Tell me all about it,” said Lord 
Pompey, eagerly. “ I always took her for a prude.” 

“ Dear Lord Pompey,” cried his hearer compassion- 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


ately, ** you know Voltaire says, * when virtue is expelled 
from the heart, it takes refuge on the lips.’ ” 

“Clever woman,” said Lord Pompey, aotto voce, 
“ wonder who she is ; deuced good-looking still,” he 
added, putting up an eye-glass to one of his dim glassy 
eyes and regarding her fixedly. 

Maintaining a serious face, Mrs. Eoch ester, in whose 
heart the spirit of comedy dwelt, said as if to herself, 
“ What a charming man is Lord Pompey.” 

“Eh,” said he, “she’s in love with me; deuced 
fascinating fellow I have always been, women could 
never withstand me ; good style this woman — eh ? ” 

“ Dear Lord Pompey,” she said aloud, “ this is a 
wicked world in which we live ; nothing compensates 
for the pain of existence but the enjoyment of affec- 
tion.” And she laid one hand carelessly, yet caress- 
ingly on his arm. 

“ Egad,” he said, “ she wants to marry me ; they all 
do; delightful creature.” Aloud he added, “True, 
dear madam, love should be the ruling power of our 
lives.” 

She looked at him tenderly, then suddenly lowered 
her eyes as if to hide a truth she was loth to reveal, 
holding her breath the while that her cheeks might 
assume a natural glow. An actress might have envied 
her powers. “ My lot,” she said, “ has not been happy,” 
and like many another player, she spoke in airy jest 
that which was sober truth. 

“Gad,” he said, “she is becoming sentimental. 
She’ll talk of broken hearts and that sort of thing next ; 
they all do.” 

“ Had I,” said she, letting her hand rest more heavily 
on his arm, “ but one heart on which to repose, how 
happy should I feel.” 

“ Delightful,” he said. “ Ah I am a sad dog.” 

“ But one hand to guide me on my way.” 


CONCEENING LOVE AND MAREIAGE. 


89 


Ix>rd Pompey coughed, then tittered, and said, 
“Dear creature, take mine.” 

Mrs. Kochester drew back a few inches, and said 
sternly, almost tragically, “Do not trifle with my 
feelings.” 

“ They all say that, but they don’t mean it, not 
they,” he remarked to himself. 

“ Because,” she continued, with a sigh which was 
genuine, “ I have a husband.” 

“You have,” he exclaimed, with apparent relief. 
“ How nice of you.” 

She glanced at him, striving hard to suppress her 
laughter. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ I’m awfully fond of women 
with husbands ; a little weakness of mine ; they don’t 
want to marry me.” 

“ How unselfish of them.” 

“ It is ; but they can’t very well without slighting 
the other fellow, and that would be bad taste; was 
once a husband myself and can understand the posi- 
tion.” 

“ But you are not a husband now ? ” she demanded 
in tremulous tones, as if her future happiness depended 
on his answer. 

“ Not now ; but soon shall be, I daresay.” 

“Who is she?” Mrs. Kochester asked, pressing her 
hand on the left side of her corset. “Who is the 
happy woman of your choice ? ” she added in a tone of 
gentle despondency. 

* Before he could reply, a loud voice summoned him 
from the siren’s side. 

“Oh, it’s Mrs. Netley,” he said meekly, rising with 
some difficulty and hurrying towards where the stout 
lady awaited him. 

Mrs. Netley was talking to Gal Alex as Lord Pompey 
approached them. “ Who,” he asked, “ is that clever 


90 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


wornan to whom I have been talking, she fell in love 
with me— he, — he, — divine creature.” 

“ Designing creature, you mean,” said JMrs. Netley 
severely. 

“ It is Mrs. Eochester.? 

“ Dear me, I might have known. A woman whom 
to know is to — to ” 

“Avoid,” said Mrs. Netley. “Lord Pompey,” she 
added sternly, “ we had better go ; you dine with me 
to-night.” 

“ Gad, so I do,” he said brightening, remarking 
sottx) vocBi “ Best cook in London ; delightful woman, 
but severe.” 

It was seven o’clock. Singly and in groups the 
guests had retired, all but Ulic Tarbert. When the 
hostess had said farewell to the last visitor, it was with 
an air of constraint she turned from the door and 
advanced to where he was standing by the chimney- 
piece. Neither spoke. He nervously changed his 
position, glancing at her in search of encouragement to 
speak the words filling his mind. Meanwhile she 
seated herself on a sofa near him, assuming a calmness 
she by no means felt. 

“ I have something to say which must be spoken, 
and yet I know not how to begin,” he said. 

“Why,” she answered gently, “ why say it — to-day?” 

“ Because I must know my fate ; I cannot longer 
bear the suspense which weights me.” 

“ There are some,” she said sadly, “ who must 
endure.” ^ 

“ I am not one of these. We have been friends for 
years ” 

“ Why disturb our friendship ? ” she asked, anxious to 
interrupt him. 

“ Because it does not satisfy me ; because I love you, 
and would win you for my wife.” 


CONCERNING LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 


91 


She made no answer, but leaning her elbows on her 
knees, buried her face in her hands. He watched a 
little sapphire fastened to her dress, rising and falling 
rapidly with the motions of her breast, and wondered 
if its changing lights and shifting sparkles typified the 
thoughts and fears, hopes and fancies passing through 
her mind. 

“ I know,” he said, “ I am not clever like many other 
men who surround you, but my love for you is as deep 
and strong as man’s can be.” 

She raised her pale face, and looked into his eyes 
confidingly, gratefully. “I don’t doubt it,” she said 
calmly, “ it is not that.” 

“ Then you believe me — perhaps — perhaps love me 
and oh, if you do, why should we part ? ” 

‘‘We must,” she said quietly, the words falling 
coldly, sadly from her lips. 

“ You don’t love ” 

“Oh,” she cried out in agony, “ask me no more 
questions.” 

“ But,” he said, choking down his emotion, “ I have 
some right to ask ; only say yes or no and I shall be 
satisfied. Do you love me ? ” 

The look in her dark eyes would have answered any 
man who was not a lover ; but he waited for her words, 
and she loved him for his cruelty. 

“ I love you,” she said, in a voice so sweet that it 
seemed heaven had opened and angel songs were heard 
on earth. He stepped forward hastily, and sat beside 
her, but she rose instantly, blushing and confused. 

He was stunned and disappointed. 

“ We cannot be more than friends,” she said. There 
was no longer music in her tones. 

“ I see,” he replied bitterly, “ you sacrifice affection 
to ambition. I have not made a name it is true ” 

He paused, silenced by her reproachful look. 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ Can you,” she asked, “ think so badly me, can 
you imagine I would weigh things so poor kud paltry 
as wealth or fame against the alfection of a*a honest 
heart — the highest treasure a woman can gain ? If so, 
you don’t understand me. A name brings with it no 
happiness, and little satisfaction save that which lies 
in vanity ; but love fills the world with joy. If I could 
freely love and were well loved in return, I should be 
content though steeped in poverty and sunk in ob- 
scurity. You have yet to learn the secrets of a woman’s 
heart ; nothing on earth satisfies her but love ; nothing 
compensates for its loss.” 

, He heard her with mingled feelings of delight and 
pain. She had declared she loved him, and yet that 
they could be no more than friends. He stood up, 
and, approaching her, gravely looked into her lustrous 
eyes, and said with a voice full of emotion, “ Will you 
not be my wife — if not now, at least in the future ? 
Don’t,” he continued pleadingly, “don’t banish all 
hope.” 

“ You know so little of me,” she answered evasively. 

“But that little has taught me to love you much.” 

“ And you would marry me, though my past is to 
you a mere blank ? ” 

“ It is a poor love that has no trust. I know you 
can have done no wrong ; I care not for aught if I am 
certain of one thing.” 

“ And that ? ” she asked breathlessly. 

“ Your love.” 

A look of rapture came into her face, brightening 
every lineament, glowing in her eyes, transfiguring her 
whole being. 

“ You have not answered my question,” he said, and 
all the light fled from her and left her in shadow. 

“ Ask me no more to-night,” she replied hurriedly, 
anxiously. “ Kest satisfied with what I have confessed, 


BENONI’S PROMISE. 


93 


and leave me — leave me now if you love me.” Her 
eyes turned towards a little clock on the chimney-piece 
which just then chimed the half-hour. 

“ When am I to have my answer ? ” he pleaded. 

‘‘If you will have it, to-morrow night. You are 
going to the Keans’, so am I ; you shall have it then.” 
She spoke with nervous rapidity, and as she ended, 
held out her hand to signify their interview was at an 
end. He took it in both his own, then kissed it 
fervently. 

As he left the drawing-room, the street door bell 
rang loud and clear ; and as he descended the stairs, 
he saw the tall majestic figure of Benoni enter the 
house without question or hesitation. Meeting Tar- 
bert, he bowed gravely and passed onwards in silence. 
Ulic, bewildered by a thousand thoughts, hesitated 
until meeting the surprised look of the servant waiting 
to show him out. As the hall door closed behind him, 
a weight seemed to have fallen on his heart. 


CHAPTEK VIIL 

BENONi’S PROMISE. 

t 

Tee passage of time brought neither peace nor con- 
tentment to Philip Amerton, who was now heartsick 
and weary. Strenuously he sought to conceal his dis- 
appointment and despair from his wife ; a task in which 
he succeeded without much difficulty, as neither were 
her perceptions keen nor her sensibilities acute. The 
placid character of her mind was still undisturbed. 
The change in her life from girlhood to wifehood had 
not yet palled through familiarity ; the excitement of 
travel and change still occupied her niind ; the con- 


94 A MODERN JVIAGICIAN. 

sideration of re-entering society as the wife of a 
distinguished man filled her with anticipated triumph. 

The metallic brightness of her character, which had 
formerly attracted Amerton because of its diversity to 
his own,, now became a source of weariness and vexa- 
tion, which required careful schooling to conceal and 
control. He was loth even when compelled, to admit 
her vivacity was insipidity, her tenderness passion. 
He wondered if years would deepen her nature, intensify 
her perceptions, ennoble her feelings. The glare of 
life was to her the perfection of enjoyment, to him the 
acme of horror. 

More than ever he lived as a stranger in the centre 
of crowds ; an unadhesive unit in the midst of assem- 
blies. Mentally withdrawing from contact with the 
world into his own heart, he remained a solitary earnest 
man, moving amidst a populace of prattlers, whth whose 
interests, appetites, greed of enrichment, desires of 
advancement he had nothing in common ; mixing with 
a society of well-trimmed, smock-faced, wooden-hearted 
puppets powerless to feel or know, helpless to rise or 
move save in response to the motions of the master- 
manager — Fashion. 

If he could but undo the past, if he could but rise 
free from the care with w'hich he had weighted his days 
— that heaviest burden life can know, forced companion- 
ship with an unsympathetic mind. To endow his wife 
with a soul was, he feared, impossible ; could he put 
back his own nature to a level with hers, and so find 
peace and happiness in a common condition of a lower 
plane ? A sea of black thoughts surged in upon his 
soul. Then came remembrance of Benoni as a beacon 
light. 

He had said in Florence they should meet some 
weeks hence ; and Amerton, in the course of the after- 
noon on which he had seen Ulic Tarbert, set out to 


BENONI’S promise: 


"W 

seek the mystic. He would understand him ; his 
presence brought peace ; his words had healing balm 
in their significance. Ainerton found him at home. 

“ Peace be with you,” said the magian. 

“ And yet,” answered Philip, “ I know no peace.” 

Benoni laid one hand on his friend’s shoulder and 
^azed sadly into his face. 

“ None,” he said slowly and impressively— “ none can 
the writing of destiny efface.” 

“ What is it you mean ? ” asked Philip. 

“ That the old struggle for a higher life continues to 
sway your being. Your marriage has been powerless 
to bind your mind to this lower earth.” 

“ Then,” said Amerton, with hope fluttering wildly 
in hid heart, “you assure me my marriage does not 
prove an impassable barrier to the state I once dreamt 
of attaining? ” 

“ A barrier certainly, but not impassable. If we 
recede one step on the path, it will take two to make 
progress from our original position.” 

“ So long as the steps can be taken, I care not.” 

“ From your marriage,” continued the mystic, “ will 
proceed events that rightly understood, will further you 
on your way.” 

Amerton remained silent some minutes, his mind 
dwelling on the words he had heard, his pulse throbbing 
with strong desire. 

“Speak to me no more,” he said,' “in phrases I can- 
not follow, but regard me from this hour as your pupil ; 
let me hear from you the teachings of a master to his 
disciple.” 

“ Patience, patience, patience,” replied Benoni. 

“ When is my initiation to take place ? ” Philip asked. 

The mystic raised one hand to indicate silence, and 
then with closed eyes and an absorbed air, seemed listen- 
ing with keen attention. After a while he slowly opened 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


his eyes and said, “ On the midnight of the seventh day 
from this, come here and you shall behold my master, 
Amuni. He will talk with you of your desires.” 

“ Then he is in England ? ” 

‘‘ No, he is in Thibet.” 

“ He cannot ai'rive here in seven days.” 

“ His astral form, with all the powers and sensations 
of his natural body, can be projected in a second.” 

Amerton remembered Benoui’s appearance in 
Florence, concerning which he had never been able to 
satisfy himself. An uncanny sensation crept over him. 

‘‘ Surely,” he said, “ this is against all the laws of 
nature.” 

The mystic regarded him compassionately. 

‘‘ My friend,” he answered, “ have you such full know- 
ledge of the laws of nature that you can say what is 
against and what is in harmony with them? Nay, can 
you, or those who babble vain-gloriously of scienc — ewho 
exerting their petty mental stature to highest limits, 
would stretch forward to measure Infinity by plummet, 
tape line, compass, or some such means of their paltry 
devising — tell me first what Nature is, whence came she, 
wherefore she exists ? Think you science has knowledge 
of Nature’s mighty secrets; has tabulated, explained, 
alphabetically arranged them for use of classes, and pub- 
lished them in popular editions for the benefit of board 
schools ? The boast of modern science is but the trum- 
peting of egotism. Men lay claim to knowledge of the 
origin of all things in the heavens above and the earth 
below. Can they make known to me how came such 
colours on a peacock’s tail ? ’’ 

Amerton felt as if he had been reproached. 

“ Tell me,” he asked, “ who is Amuni ? ” 

“ He is the master under whom I have studied for 
long years. In the body he never leaves the regions of 
the Himalayan hills. He has survived many centuries. 


BENONI’S PROMISE. 


m 

He Tias trodden the rugged pathway of pain ; led the 
purified life ; and crossed the bridge parting mankind 
from spiritual knowledge. He has outlived sorrow and 
triumphed above humanity. Neither can grief over- 
shadow or yearning disturb him, but wisdom abides 
with and peace crowns him for evermore.” 

“ And his powers ? ” queried Amerton. 

“Are manifold. He can transport his astral form 
where he desires, rendering it visible or invisible at will. 
He can control the elements, and make the countless 
messengers of air obedient to his behests. He can 
perceive the thoughts of those with whom he comes in 
to spiritual contact, though divided from them by lands 
and seas. His knowledge ranges over worlds unknown 
to inhabitants of this globe.” 

“ You referred to the messengers of air ; who are 
they ? ” 

Benoni did not immediately reply. 

“ You have spoken of a subject,” he said after some 
time, “concerning which intelligence is never given, 
save to those who have begun to tread the upward })ath. 
But yet I shall answer your question. Every schoolboy 
knows that a glass of water, clear to sight and pure to 
taste, swarms with life invisible to the naked eye ; but 
few men are aware our atmosphere throbs with organisms 
unseen save to those whose eyes have been opened to 
other worlds. These inhabitants of our atmosphere, 
belief in -whom has been common to all countries and 
times, are the twelve legions of angels of Scriptural 
phrase, the dryads, naiads and satyrs of classic ages, the 
genii of Eastern legend, the incubi and succubi of Pagan 
belief, the sirens of poets’ tales, the elves and fairies 
popular in the folklore of every land. To us they are 
known as elementals. Their position is intermediary 
betw’een mankind and spirits; their habitation is in a 
kingdom unknown to science, but spoken of by Homer 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


VS 

as ‘the middle air.’ As the vegetable and mineral 
* kingdoms are divided and classified, so is this. There 
are superior and inferior powers ; the malignant tribes 
who are permitted to wreck havoc on cities, by plague 
and storm, flood and fire ; and bands who carry fruitful- 
ness, peace and prosperity in their train. The former 
lure men to deeds of darkness, overwhelm them with 
despair, tempt them to suicide and destruction; the 
latter prompt them to noble acts and beneficent deeds, 
cheer them in their labours, console them in their 
sorrows.” 

“ Then how may a man avoid the one and woo the 
other ? ” 

“ That rests with himself. The laws of sympathy and 
attraction underlie all nature; like draws unto like. 
Men who aim at self-elevation are attended by helpful 
elementals; those who tread the downward path are 
surrounded by evil tribes. These creatures, who are 
neither of the nature of man nor the essence of spirits, 
yet are half-human, half-ethereal, enjoy the passions to 
which they tempt through the senses of their victims ; 
and for this reason have they hurried men onwards to 
shame and madness.” 

“ But you have called them messengers of air.” 

“Yes; they it is who in some cases convey to us 
knowledge of occurrences in distant localities, transfer 
material objects from place to place irrespective of such 
barriers as walls or gates, bring to light objects hidden 
in the sea or buried in the earth, sometimes by their 
own power, frequently through the instrumentality of 
men. Being immaterial they are capable of penetra- 
ting and passing through all solids, and in motion are 
rapid as thought itself. To render them obedient to 
will and serviceable to purpose is one of the greatest 
mysteries occult lore holds, the possession of which, 
powerful as it is for good or evil, is co'^fided only to 


BENONI’S PKOMISE. 






those who by a series of trying ordeals have proved 
themselves absolutely worthy of trust. This power is 
yielded by occult knowledge and indomitable will, and 
is no more marvellous than most scientific truths were 
before their secrets became generally known to man- 
kind.” 

“ And yet,” says Philip, “ it seems miraculous.” 

“ A hundred miracles occur before our eyes in the 
passage of as many days. Light and darkness appear 
and disappear; storms gather, winds rage, lightning 
flashes, spring covers the land with green as with a 
royal mantle, heat succeeds cold, but yet we heed not 
such wonders because of their familiarity. It is only a 
new phenomenon that astonishes, an unexpected occur- 
Tence that startles, though it be less miraculous than 
causes and events we witness daily.” 

Amerton heard him in silence. His heart was as a 
lyre on which Benoni’s utterances* woke weird and 
mystic melodies, wordless, yet freighted with notes of 
strange import rousing the longings of his soul to new 
life and fresh vigour. 

“ Will such powers be given to me ? ” he asked. 

“ Certainly, if you prove yourself worthy of their 
reception.” 

“I am ready to endure any trial; put me to the 
test.” 

“ Your hour of ordeal has not yet arrived. Before 
much is given you much is required. If you would 
govern others, you must first conquer self ; only when 
an adept is dead to all emotions can he wield the pas- 
sions of others as instruments of his will ; not until he 
is indifferent to worldly interests can he exercise su- 
preme influence over materialistic things. Did he 
dare to utilize the power he possessed for the satisfac- 
tion of his passions or the benefit of his greed, he 
would lose control over those he had bidden to execute 


100 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


his commands, who, vengeful because of the services 
into which they were pressed, would hurry him forward 
through a wilderness of madness, and hurl him down 
the black abyss of death.” 

They were both silent awhile. Then Benoni con- 
tinued, “On the midnight of the seventh day from 
this come to me. From the going down of the sun 
neither shall you eat nor drink on that day ; purify 
your body by ablutions ; seek the peaceful silence of 
your heart, that the words of Amuni the Faithful One 
may fall with gladness on your ears.” 

It was almost dinner-hour when Amerton reached 
his home in Campden Hill Road. The mystic’s words 
were still ringing in his ears ; the hopes they had be- 
gotten filled his mind. Impatient of the present he 
looked forward to the future, when the veil might be 
lifted and the mysteries of life now perplexing him 
should be made clear to his sight. 

As he passed the drawing-room tired, pale, and 
anxious, his wife came to the door looking radiant, 
healthful, smiling, already dressed for dinner. 

“ I was afraid you would have been late, Philip,” she 
said, “ and you know I wish to dine early, as we after- 
wards go to the Keans’.” 

She turned back into the room ; following her, he 
flung himself wearily on a sofa. 

“ I had forgotten all about the engagement,” he said 
in an absent-minded way. 

“ How could you ? ” she asked reproachfully, as she 
advanced to a mirror and arranged some baubles on 
her breast; “you know I looked forward to it with 
pleasure.” 

“Yes, but I have come to hate crowds, above all 
society crowds, where a lot of inane people distract 
you by foolish grimaces, and plague you with feeble 
chatter.” 


BENONrS PEOMISE. 


101 


Yon must take the world as it is/’ she answered, 
her round blue eyes regarding him with wonder. 

“ I don’t see why we must. I intend to avoid it in 
future.” 

“ It wouldn’t do for every man to turn hermit.” 

“Nor for every woman to gain sense, I suppose.” 

She turned from the reflection of her face to a neigh- 
bouring window and gazed on vacancy. 

“I suppose every one who attends a social gathering 
is a fool in your eyes ? ” 

“ Almost,” he answered. “ The fact is, Miriam,” he 
added, fearful their conversation might develop into 
one of those unpleasant discussions which recent ex- 
perience taught him were not uncommon to married 
life, “ I’m extremely tired to-night, and would rather 
not go, if you will excuse me.” 

“ And am I to stay at home ? ” she demanded, turn- 
ing from the window with a look in her eyes which 
threatened a storm. 

“By no means, if you will not mind going alone ; 
you can tell John to have the brougham waiting for 
your return at whatever hour you please.” She gave a 
sigh of relief, yet felt pained by his unwillingness to 
accompany her. Another man in his place would have 
been proud to see the world admire her ; have rejoiced 
in her triumphs, felt flattered by the homage she 
received. But he was indifferent to her social success ; 
had no desire of helping her towards distinction as a 
woman* of fashion, or aiding her in posing as the wife 
of a well-known man. And yet they had not been 
twelve months marriea. Was it wise after all to 
have wedded a genius ? Why w^s he not satisfied to 
dwell amongst his fellows instead '‘f trying to soar 
into the clouds ? 

“ People will wonder why you are not w’th me,” she 
said presently. 


102 


A MODERN MAOICllN. 


“ Never mind what people think,” he answered ; it 
is a mistake to take their thoughts into consideration.’' 

‘‘ They may say we have quarrelled already, or that 
you don’t love me.” 

“ But their sayings will make no difference to you or 
to me, dear — cannot influence our feelings towards 
each other.” 

No, but 

“ But what ? ” 

“ I do wish you would come, Philip,” she said, laying 
one hand on his shoulder. He took it and kissed it 
affectionately. His action reminded both of the first 
months of their married life, and the distance which 
they had drifted apart since then was bridged in a 
second, 

“ I’ll go if you like,” he said, with a ring of the old 
feeling in his voice. 

“ No, not if you don’t wish it,” she said, for having 
gained her point, woman-like, she became generous. 

“ Then I’ll stay at home,” he answered with relief. 

“ Very well,” she said, with some disappointment, 
sorry now she had spoken so quickly. I suppose we 
had better have dinner at once,” she continued, turn- 
ing away. 


CHAPTER IX, 

HOPES AND FEARS, 

Sir Richard Kean was a power in the Cabinet; Lady 
Kean a star in the firmament of fashion ; both were 
wealthy, ambitious, hospitable, for which reasons they 
entertained the world at large. And as each bade to 
their feasts members of the circle in which he or she 
moved, it came to pass their house was known as a 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


108 


platform on which all manner of men and women met 
amicably. Within its spacious walls Irish rnembers 
jostled the House of Peers, courtiers became comrades 
of players, fashion and letters rubbed shoulders and 
were friends, the lamb sat down to dinner with the 
wolf, and all were glad. 

Some hours after Mrs. Amerton’s conversation with 
her husband. Lady Kean’s rooms were crowded. The 
murmur of hundreds of voices rose like sounds of the 
sea. Seated on a landing commanding an excellent 
view of the principal rooms, Mrs. Rochester watched 
Colonel Tarbert eagerly, closely. His heavy brows were 
contracted, his eyes wandered searchingly from face to 
face. At last they encountered Mrs. Rochester, who 
beckoned him towards her with her fan, and made 
room for him beside her. They were old friends. 

You have been looking,” she said laughingly, ‘‘ for 
an angel.” 

“ And I find a ” 

“Devil,” she suggested good-humouredly. 

“ Woman, I was about to say.” 

“ You would find her a more suitable companion.** 

. “ Can’t say ; I never met an angel.” 

“ Not even one ? ” she asked mischievously. 

“ Unless yourself,” he answered with a sneer. 

“Your compliments are as pleasant as they are 
sincere,” she said airily, as if in her merriest mood, and 
not resentful of his impertinence. She looked over her 
shoulder to see if those near were engaged in conversa- 
tion, and then demanded : ^ 

“ Are you engaged to-morrow night ? ** 

“ Not particularly ; why ? ” 

“ Then ask me to dine at the G-rand, and take me to 
a theatre afterwards — for the sake of old times,” she 
added in a lower key, her eyes watching the effect of 
her words. 


104 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Sentiment was never your forte^^ he replie<i, look- 
ing at her coldly. 

She laughed undismayed. “I am sad,” she said, 
and need amusing.” 

“You mean you are in debt,” he replied, “and want 
money.” 

“ If you put it in that forcible manner y — es,” she 
replied frankly. 

“ Where is your loyal knight, the little lordling ?” 

“ His father, the Duke of Bloomsbury, has refused to 
give him another penny, and has recalled him to the 
country. Poor lad, he would play ecarte the last night 
he was in town.” 

“Of course he would ; and you weren’t sufficiently 
hard-hearted to refuse joining in the game.” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ How much did you win ? ” he inquired. 

“ He insisted on giving me a bill for three hundred 
pounds, payable next month.” 

Colonel Tarbert laughed unpleasantly. “ Poor fool,” 
he remarked contemptuously. 

“ Come,” said Mrs. Kochester, “ if you invite me to 
dinner to-morrow night and get this bill cashed for me, 
I shall do you a good turn next week, believe me.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ That I shall ask Mrs. Philip Amerton to dinner, 
and you to meet hjr.” 

“ You will hav< to invite him also.” 

“ Her husband — of course ; but Pm told he seldom 
goes out with**hex\ I suppose they are tired to death 
of each other.” 

“ All right,” replied the colonel, his heavy grey eyes 
brightening. “Ill expect you to dine with me to- 
morrow night at seven.” 

“ At the Grand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


105 


“ And you will have the money ready for me? Here 
is the bill. I know you can get it cashed if you like ; 
there is no risk. Oblige an old friend.’* 

« Well, I’ll see about it.” 

“ Remember, no cash, no banquet.” 

“ Who else do you intend asking ? ** 

“ Only a new friend of mine, the heir of a tallow 
merchant, a youth fresh from Oxford, with plenty of 
money and a taste for good society.” 

“ In which you indulge him.” 

“ Don’t be severe.” 

“ Not for the world. You are an angel.” 

“ And not a devil ? ” 

“ That is best known to yourself,” he answered as he 
rose and walked towards the great drawing-room. 

Soon after this conversation ended, Ulic Tarhert 
entered the house. His honest blue eyes were clouded 
by sorrow, his frank fair face shadowed with doubt. 
He had come here to receive an answer which must end 
the suspense tearing his heart ; must make him the 
happiest or most miserable of mankind. The fact that 
Gal Alex had admitted her love warmed his heart ; but 
yet her hesitation to accept his offer filled him with 
despair. He could not believe her tardiness to relieve 
his suspense arose from indecision, yet he was loth to 
believe she awaited Benoni’s counsel regarding her 
choice. All his dread of disappointment and vague 
apprehensions of grief centred themselves round the 
mystic. He remembered how she had shrunk from him 
at Mrs. Netley’s ; how Benoni had sought her in the 
alcove, had given her the flower. And though occa- 
sionally tempted to believe some secret kept her in 
his power, yet Ulic banished the thought as injurious 
to her and unworthy of himself. 

All his future welfare, his chance of happiness, 
depended on making Gal Alex his wife. Shared with 


108 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


her, existence stretched to its fullest length of days, 
would become a period of too brief bliss ; without her 
he dared not think of his coming years. How terrible 
that the decision of another being, should weigh so 
heavily for happiness or misery in the balance of a life. 

Abstracted because of the tumult of his thoughts, 
pale from force of his feelings, he wandered through 
the rooms in search of the woman’s face which had 
become the load-scar of his existence. The ever-shift- 
ing crowd dazzled and confused him. Occasionally his 
course was checked by friends or acquaintances, who 
detained him to narrate some gossip or anecdote which 
conveyed little sense to his pre-occupied mind. After 
'wandering to and fro for some time without seeing Gal 
Alex, he concluded she had not yet arrived. As he was 
about to quit a smaller drawing-room he felt a light 
touch on his arm, and turning round quickly, saw Mrs. 
Amerton talking to his cousin, Colonel Tarbert. They 
were standing somewhat apart from the crowd, and 
Ulic noticed her eyes flashed and a deep colour suffused 
her cheeks. She held out her hand. 

“ I haven’t seen you since my return,” she said in 
quick, nervous tones. 

“ I waited until you were quite settled before I 
called.” 

“ Will you take me to the refreshment-room and get 
me an ice ? ” she asked. 

Without waiting for an answer she took his arm, 
and bowing to the colonel, left him with an expression 
of grim disappointment on his heavy face. 

Whilst they were in the room she did not speak to 
Ulic, but on gaining the landing she addressed him ; 

“ I don't want an ice, thank you — that is, 1 have 
changed my mind. But, Mr. Tarbert, will you do me 
a favour? Philip is not here to-night, he couldn’t 
come, and I ordered the brougham for twelve o’clock ; 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


107 


it won’t be here for another hour — will you take me 
home ? I — I must go. I don’t feel well,” she said, 
placing her hand upon her heart; ‘‘take me away.” 

For a moment he thought of pleading an engage- 
ment, but he coulj not refuse her request, and he 
considered he might be able to drive her home and 
return before Gal Alex left. 

Accepting silence as compliance, Mrs. Amerton led 
him towards the cloak-room, and presently they were 
driving towards Campden Hill Eoad. Occupied with 
her thoughts, she did rot speak, and her com- 
panion being likewise engaged, the journey was made 
in silence. As they drove into High Street, Kensing- 
ton, Ulic, reproaching himself for his lack of sympathy, 
asked if she were better. 

“ Better,” she repeated, as if the question surprised 
her; then added quickly, “Oh yes, much better 
thanks. Good-night, and thank you so much. You 
will soon come and see us, I hope.” 

He assisted her out of the cab, saw her enter the 
house, then directing the cabdriver to take him back 
quickly, was on his way to the Keans’ again. Enter- 
ing the drawing-room, he saw Gal Alex standing alone 
and looking towards the door, as if expecting him. He 
went up at once to her, and they shook hands in 
silence. She then asked him to fetch her a light wrap 
she had left in the cloak-room, and when he had 
obeyed, she said, “ Let us go into the garden ; the cool 
and shade will be a grateful change.” 

Escaping from the crowded rooms into the night, 
they found the atmosphere refreshing and balmy, the 
sky clear and bright with stars. Here and there out- 
lines of figures passing under trees lighted by coloured 
lamps were visible; voices and faint peals of laughter 
now and then rang from the darkness beyond. Ulic 
had given his arm to his companion, and led her to a 


108 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


pathway almost deserted. Neither spoke. The in- 
fluence of this calm night, with its mystic stars and 
fragrant odours, was upon him. Heedless of discordant 
voices near, and mindful only of the presence beside 
him, he thought, whatever the future might hold, the 
memory of this hour must abide with him for ever. 

He was loth to disturb the peace which, spell-like, 
hung around him ; perhaps this was the last hour of 
happiness his life might know, and yet he could not 
wholly enjoy it because of the terrible eagerness beset- 
ting him to learn his impending fate. 

At last he said in a low, uncertain voice : 

“ Tell me, tell me, dear, you will become my wife ? ” 

The hand laid upon his arm twitched nervously. . 

“ Would you,” she asked, ‘‘ repeat the words you 
spoke yesterday ? ” 

“ You know I would.” 

“ Don’t you think,” she continued in tones strangely 
unlike her own, when a man gives his heart to a 
woman he hands his sword to an enemy ? ” 

“ For Grod’s sake don’t jest with me,” he cried out ; 
“I can’t bear it now.” 

Forgive me,” she said, a sob rising in her throat, 
and presently Ulic felt a warm drop fall upon his 
hand. 

He put his arm around her, bent down his head, 
and would have kissed her but she drew bact , 

“ You will be my wife ? ” he said ; but as he spoke 
his heart sank from fear. 

“ No,” she answered, almost in a whisper, I cannot, 
I cannot.” 

She could say no more because of the tears choking 
her voice. 

‘‘ You cannot,” he repeated, feeling he did not quite 
understand her words ; “ and but a few hours since 
you owned you loved me,” 


HOPES AND PEAKS. 


109 


Yes, but it was ” 

“ Not false ? ” he interrupted, feeling as if earth 
trembled in the balance of her words ; “ don’t say 
’twas false.” 

“ No, not false, but ’twas wrong.” 

“ But you love me ? ” he asked, forgetful for a second 
of all else save the happiness her assurance would 
convey. 

“ Love you,” she replied softly, “ but too well.” 

“ Then,” he said, still refusing to banish hope, 

what prevents you from being my wife ? ” 

She did not speak immediately; a great struggle 
swayed her mind ; he could feel her trembling. ‘‘ I 
cannot tell you here nor now,” she answered, but 
some day soon you shall hear my story and under- 
stand all.” 

The sound of laughter far down the garden, the 
notes of a merry song floating from the house, fell 
upon their ears discordantly. 

“ If you have suflerod wrongs in the past,” he said, 
*‘you have but greater claim on my love; let my 
affection efface the memory of your sorrow ; my whole 
life shall be devoted to your care.” 

His words fell upon her ears with a sweetness such 
as music never yet conveyed. She thought of them 
long afterwards, and in days of depression and nights 
of pain they rose from the silence of her heart and 
solaced its weariness. She dared not venture to reply, 
but pressed his arm in token he was understood in all. 

“ You will always be dear to me,” she found voice 
to say presently, “ and I shall never forget you, but 
we can be no more than friends. And now,” she added 
hurriedly, fearing his answer, “ see me to my carriage. 
I cannot re-enter the rooms with red eyes ; my hostess 
will not remember I haven’t bidden her good-bye.” 

“ When am I to see you again ? ” he asked. Until 


no 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


he had heard her story he would not admit his cause 
was lost. 

“ In a few days. Don’t come until I write to you.” 

She put the wrap covering her shoulders over her 
head, and still leaning on his arm, walked through a 
long passage leading from the garden to the entrance 
door. Once she glanced at Ulic, and his white face 
and sad eyes smote her to the heart. 

As her brougham drove from the door she covered 
her face with her hands and sobbed aloud as if her 
heart would break. Suddenly the carriage, owing to 
some cabs blocking the thoroughfare, stopped with a 
jerk that almost flung her to the opposite seat. She 
leaned forward to ascertain the cause ; as she did a 
man’s face was thrust against the window. The lamp- 
light flashing on his features, revealed them distinctly 
to her sight; her eyes met those bent upon her 
malignantly, and uttering a cry, she crouched back 
into shadow. When she looked again the face had 
vanished. 


CHAPTER X. 

AMUNI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 

The day appointed for Philip Amerton’s interview with 
Arauni arrived. The feverish eagerness with which he 
awaited its approach had now vanished, leaving him 
abstracted, weary and depressed. From morning until 
night the sky had been overcast, the atmosphere was 
warm and humid ; no sunshine had pierced the grey 
mass of drifting cloud, rain had fallen heavily from 
time to time. 

All day long Philip had sat alone in his study, not 
working but thinking. Problems which of old had 


AMUNI TnE FAITHFUL ONE. HI 

frequently l)eset him rose up once more, confronted, 
questioned, perplexed him, demanded answers. What 
was this strange combination of spirit and matter, 
action and desire, aspirations and grovellings, this 
mystery of all ages called man ? Was he merely an 
animal whose highest happiness was bounded by appe- 
tites, sensations, passions ; or was his form but the 
outward covering of an intangible essence called soul, 
clothing itself in mortality at birth, regaining invisi- 
bility and freedom at death ? Did the liberated spirit 
awaken to living realities on quitting the outworn 
garment wrought of flesh and sinew, or become a mere 
phantom in a world of shadows, or returning again to 
earth enveloped in another body, w’ork out its mission 
in obedience to a higher law ? P>om whence have 
men started and to where do they tend ? Surely not 
to nothingness. Decease cannot destroy but merely 
change the soul’s condition. Verily the past was 
something more than a mighty burial vault, drear as 
death, silent as time, darker than night. 

He raised his eyes, fraught with sadness, upwards, 
but clouds, restless and sombre as bis thoughts, shut 
out all light. 

Was man’s life but as a breath ? Was heaven above, 
with its glorious sun, its limitless dome crowded with 
stars, wondrous, mysterious, innumerable ; its powerful 
winds that swept the world and lashed vast seas to 
madness ; its moon that lulled them into calm ; was 
the earth with its teeming fruitfulness and uncounted 
treasures, mighty mountains and wide plains, all made 
that man might enjoy them but for a brief space. 
Was he as a traveller resting for a night at a wayside 
inn, to journey at dawn towards strange lands he 
knows not of but seeks ? Did the human race, genera- 
tion after generation, march in an unending procession 
from the hill-top of life down weary roadways of years 


112 


k MODERN MAGICIAN. 


into the valley of sliadow and death to exist no more ? 
Men liad come without consent or option into light 
and consciousness, and passed away without will or 
choice into silence and darkness, as ships that rise and 
sink upon the horizon and leave no trace upon the sea. 
He rose wearily and walked backwards and forwards 
impatient, restless, weighed with sadness. 

Why did he seek to solve the mysteries of creation ; 
the motives of man’s entrance into and exit from the 
world ; the strange secrets of promptings, inclinations, 
loves, hatreds, passions, hopes and fears that filled 
humanity’s heart? His very earnestness placed him 
at odds with his kind. Why could not he eat, drink 
and make merry, careless if his life went out with to- 
morrow’s sun ? 

When the dinner-bell had rung he descended, to 
find his wife dressed and beaming with anticipated 
pleasure. She was going to a theatre in comi^any with 
Mrs. Kochester, and paid no heed to his pale face and 
haggard looks, but rattled on concerning the play and 
players she was about to see. He sat at the table, but 
neither ate or drank. Neither had he the desire nor 
spirits to answer his wife’s remarks; but she, as if 
anxious silence should not exist on this occasion, spoke 
volubly concerning he knew not what. When she had 
finished dinner he rose with relief and went back to his 
study, from whence he heard the roll of the carriage 
which bore her in search of pleasure. 

How terribly alone in life he seemed. It was pitiful 
that the woman whom of all others he had selected as 
his wife was unable to approach him in that inner 
world of thoughts and feelings where he continually 
dwelt. Must he for ever exist a solitary man ? With- 
out admitting the fact to himself, he was yet aware his 
affections were Hung upon barren ground choking their 
infinite possibilities. To what depths th jy might have 


AMUNI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 


113 


taken root, to what heights they might have grown, 
nourishing and beautifying life if given to more con- 
•genial soil, he dared not think. 

It was almost midnight when he left his home, rain 
was falling steadily, a cold wind blew in his face. 
Wrapping his inverness around him and pulling his 
hat over his eyes, he strode forward rapidly, resolved 
he would walk to his destination, and by bodily 
exertion allay if possible the tumult of thoughts whirl- 
ing through his brain. 

Entering High Street, Kensington, he found that 
thoroughfare almost deserted, the flagway glittered 
with wet, reflecting the yellow light of dim lamps ; the 
only sounds reaching his ears were the cries of cab- 
drivers anxious to secure fares, and the chiming of 
clocks, whose sounds, muffled by the heavy atmosphere, 
fell like sad funereal music on his ears. Stars were 
blotted from the sky ; one dense pall-like cloud spread 
above the silent city ; nature was in her saddest mood. 
On such a night might troubled lives seek quick ex- 
tinction in black and whirling tides; might murder 
grapple with its victims and hide its blood-reeking 
hands in unfathomable darkness ! might fiends per- 
petrate nameless deeds; might madness scream un- 
heard by pitiless heaven, and ghostly visitants haunt 
the homes of men. 

As Philip walked rapidly onwards — the night wind 
flitting past him voiceful with the wail of lost souls — 
his heart sunk, weighted by fears he dared not analyse. 
Pursuing his dreary way he entered old Kensington 
Poad ; scarce a footfall sounded on his ears ; the roll 
of wheels, heard for a moment, was quickly lost in 
lengthening distance ; the houses on either side were 
dark and silent. 

One home he passed whose well-lighted windows 
pierced the blackness. From within came notes of 


114 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


lively music, sounds of merry voices, and the quick 
patter of feet. Looking up, he saw the figures o^ 
dancers pass and repass, floating before his sight 
against a brilliant background ; but in a moment he 
had left this vision behind, and was again alone with 
darkness. 

At last he paused before a square-built, desolate- 
looking house isolated from its neighbours and sur- 
rounded by a forlorn garden in which poplar trees, tall, 
shadowy, and gaunt, rose like churchyard phantoms. 
Lying far back from the highway as if shrinking from 
human intercourse, the dwelling was separated from 
the footpath by high grey weather-beaten walls and a 
strong gate, rusty with age. Above this rose a pointed 
arch, composed of two iron bars. A ring, from which 
a lantern was wont to hang, was yet suspended from 
the centre, and at the sides were link extinguishers 
like inverted comucopiae corroded by lack of paint 
and long disuse. The sombre bearing of the house 
was intensified at such an hour as this; gloom 
dwelt within it ; blackness covered it as with a 
shroud. 

In answer to his touch, the loud peal of a bell rang 
through the night, and, ceasing by slow degrees, 
marked the silence by contrast of its sound. No light 
became visible ; the windows seen above the high grey 
walls stared blankly into space like sightless eyes ; no 
movement was heard from within. Raindrops fell from 
the poplar trees upon the black earth like tears upon a 
coflBn-lid. The sound of ivy leaves shivering on the 
wall seemed as the rustling of cerements. Amerton’s 
heart sunk. Was this most melancholy mood of nature 
sent as a mute warning against the step he was about to 
take ? Did the elements sorrow over his self-selected 
fate ? Impressionable to all influences, the night had 
communicated its trouble to his soul. Yet no definite 


AMUNI THE FAITIIFUL ONE. 


115 


thought of swerving from his resolution entered his 
mind. 

Once more he rang the bell, and now his summons 
was answered. The house-door opened, footsteps were 
heard on the flagged pathway of the desolate garden, a 
key turned slowly in a lock, and the gate was swung 
oj^en. Then from out the darkness came Benoni’s 
voice : 

“ Peace be on you.” 

Amerton entered without response, the gate closed 
behind him, and Benoni in silence preceded him to the 
house. In the long marble-paved hall, dark save for 
the light of a flickering lamp and chilling in its cold- 
ness, Philip removed his hat and coat, and still 
following his host, crossed a passage to the left, when 
they arrived at a heavy oak door. Here Benoni paused 
a moment, raised the lamp above his visitor’s head, 
and calmly surveyed his pale anxious face. A look of 
mingled tenderness and compassion rested in the 
'mystic’s eyes, he opened his lips as if to speak, then 
hesitated and remained silent. Flinging open the 
door, he ascended a narrow winding stair leading to an 
octagon-shaped apartment, which had been built for 
and used as an observatory. 

Lofty in height and spacious in size, it was sur- 
mounted by a glass dome, from which hung a curiously 
wrought bronze lamp, that, leaving the upper part of 
the room in shadow, cast a soft mellow light below. 
The walls were hung with purple silk wrought in 
threads of gold with phrases in Eastern tongues, 
cabalistic figures, and mystic symbols. At the north 
end stood a tripod supporting a vessel in which yellow 
flames burned, diffusing heat and fragrance ; before a 
closed shrine a violet-coloured lamp flickered. The 
floor was covered with skins of beasts ; a massive folio, 
bound in vellum and fastened with strong clasps, lay 


116 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


upon an altar of white marble, behind which hung an 
oval mirror ; a great crystal was placed upon a stand, 
the legs of which represented coiled bodies of serpents ; 
charts of the heavens were spread on a desk close by ; 
velvet couches lined the walls. 

The room and its belongings seemed strangely 
familiar to Amerton. Though he had never set bis loot 
within it, he was distinctly conscious of having seen it 
before, of noting its furniture, feeling its warmth, 
inhaling its fragrant atmosphere. 

“ Yes,” replied Benoni, answering his thoughts, 
“ y6u have been here before, not in the flesh but in the 
spirit.” 

“ Have you beheld me ? ” 

“ Plainly as I see you now,” replied the mystic. 

“ Did you summon me here ? ” 

‘‘No, my friend. When your body was cast into 
deep sleep, your spirit escaping from its prison-house, 
rushed forward on the wings of desire, seeking here the 
knowledge for which it hungers and thirsts. Your 
spirit it is which, affording you no peace until fully 
satisfied, has brought you here to-night. The things 
of earth cannot gratify your nature for long. Union 
with a beautiful woman, wealth sufficient for your 
desires, a name distinguished amongst men, friends in 
abundance are yours, and yet beyond these is some- 
thing higher which you desire.” 

“What you say is even true,” replied Amerton. 
“ And yet times there were when I have been indif- 
ferent to the acquirement of higher knowledge, when 
the fascination all things mystic held for me vanished ; 
but soon the troubled longing to penetrate the secrets 
of a world on the border-land of which I stood returned 
with increased strength.” 

“ Do you not know,” replied Benoni, “ that in many 
persons divers inclinations and contradictory feelings 


AMUKI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 


117 


are centred ? These are oftentimes the jarring rem- 
nants of past existences warring with the present life. 
You are the outcome of ages. Not your body, which 
in a few seconds can be rendered inanimate, and before 
the sun rises reduced to ashes ; but your spirit, which 
has previously inhabited many bodies and bears some 
trace of each dwelling. That you have no distinct 
remembrance of former existences is due to the sleep- 
like rest which for certain periods follows bodily 
demise ; but the experiences of your past lives rest with 
your spirit.” 

“ Why does it return ? ” 

“ The All Merciful sends it back, that by good deeds 
it may work its way upwards to eternal rest, which is 
bliss. At present your soul has reached a point where 
it triumphs above the contending influences of former 
lives; and only the possession of knowledge, the 
certainty of power will satisfy you henceforth.” 

“Then,” said Amerton, “I have lived more lives 
than one.” 

“ Yes ; you have existed in many ages and in many 
countries. In your last incarnation you led a high 
but not the highest life ; it was necessary you should 
come into the world again. The intuition and imagi- 
nation which enable you, with little experience, to 
penetrate character and depict romance, is but 
accumulated observation stored in your consciousness 
ages ago.” 

Philip wondered much at what he heard. “ Shall 
this be my last life ? ” he asked, 

“ That rests with yourself,” replied the mystic, rising 
from where he sat and facing Amerton. “ And now,” 
he asked, “ have you the courage to meet my master 
face to face ? ” 

I have,” Philip answered resolutely. 

It was not alone the wind wailing through the poplar 


118 


A MODEKN IVIaGICIAN. 


trees outside which caused him to shudder ; a sudden 
numbness shot through his veins ; it seemed as if the 
hand of death gripped his heart. 

Benoni took off his slippers, and removing his velvet 
robe, clad himself in a garment of white linen that fell 
in many folds to his feet. Upon its hem were worked 
in silver threads the cabalistic signs of the nine orders 
of celestial angels; on its breast was a pentagram, 
around which were wought the sacred names Jhuh, 
:^DNi, AHiH, AGLA ; on its skirt were the four symbols 
of the cabala, with the names of the seven great 
archangels, Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Asrael, Samael, 
Zadkiel, and Oriphiel. On the right sleeve, raised in 
selenite, were the mystic letters A z o T H, and on the 
left the word AGLA. Taking a rod of silver, set with 
crystals, he traced a circle on the floor and in the air, 
repeating many prayers the while; then filling a 
censer with burning sandal-wood from the tripod, he 
sprinkled it with powder, and instantly clouds arose 
whose perfume drenched the senses with delight. 
Censer in hand, he walked around the circle three 
times seven, repeating in low tones an incantation, 
musical and weird. 

Amerton, beholding him in silence, saw that though 
without the circle all was obscure with incense smoke, 
yet within all was clear and bright as day. But even 
as he gazed the mellow radiance of the wrought lamp 
paled before a lustre whose source was unseen, which, 
like a column of moonlight reflected on an ocean, des- 
cended obliquely, illuminating the space within the 
circle with exceeding brilliancy. Outside its circum- 
ference all became dark as death, yet its blackness 
throbbed as if peopled with innumerable hosts of speech- 
less phantoms, the stealthy movements of whose sinew- 
less limbs Amerton fancied he could hear amidst the 
awful spell of soul-depressing silence. 


AMUNI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 


iiV 

Winds, cold as the air of charnel-houses, swept 
round him, stilling the coursing blood in his veins 
and freezing the marrow in his bones. Nameless, 
momentarily deepening terror descended upon him, of 
which he felt powerless to rid himself by act or will. 
He could see the figure of Benoni in his white robe 
standing within the circle, his eyes closed, his head 
bowed, his arms extended, his lips moving as if in 
prayer. And Philip, listening, heard him say : “ 0 

follower of Gautama, son of Mayadevi, who wears the 
heavens on his finger as a sapphire ring ; who holds in 
his right hand the keys of the gates of Everlasting 
Light; thou Amuni, the Faithful One, who earnest 
forth wise from the womb; whose days have outnum- 
bered ages, who has conquered death ; who hast begun 
to tread the sunlit road leading to Nirvana; whose 
heart is a mine of wisdom ; whose speech is as a gift 
of silver, vouchsafe to appear before one whose desire 
is to become thy pupil and thy servant, that the doubts 
of his mind may depart ; deign to speak with him, for 
he with hope and joy thy words awaiteth.” 

He paused a moment, as if awaiting some desired 
sight or sound. The dense black atmosphere without 
the circle quivered with unseen life ; faint whispers ot 
inarticulate words fled past Amerton, who sat motion- 
less, absorbed, and impatient from expectancy. 

After awhile Benoni continued : 

‘‘0 follower of Gautama, son of Mayadevi, the 
obviator of difficulties, the son of Exalted Fame, on 
whose two celestial feet the world is gazing; whose 
brow is resplendent of many moons; whose smile is 
more sweet than honey dropping from the comb; 
whose words are as the waters of life ; whose lips dis- 
perse the sorrows of his servants; thou Amuni, the 
Faithful One, delight the sight of this neophyte with 
a vision of thy form ; comfort his spirit with thy 


120 " 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


wisdom-dropping speech ; strengthen with thy counsel 
his soul languid as the drooping wings of a tired dove. 
The firmament of his mind is obscured by clouds of 
doubt ; spread beams luminous with spiritual light 
across its darkness that his path may be clear. Let 
his heart be agitated by thy presence as waves of the 
deep are stirred by the lunar orb ; for his soul, con- 
sumed by a fever of longing to behold thy face, already 
floats toward thee on wings of desire. 0 Amuni, here 
thy servant’s voice and be gracious to his prayer.” 

Scarce had his last words trembled into silence, 
when a stroke as if from a silver bell rang through the 
room ; and soon music, soft and subdued, rose and fell 
with delicious entrancement, until listening time 
stood still, lost in a tangle of sweet sounds. And as 
Amerton yet sitting in outward darkness, gazed into 
the luminous circle, he was conscious of the outline of 
a human figure standing in the light. Still staring in 
speechless awe, he saw the form gradually solidify, 
until there stood before him a man clad from head to 
foot in robes of white. His face was youthful and of 
exceeding beauty; his figure tall and of majestic 
mien ; his eyes were as wells of light. 

In obedience to a movement of his arm the outer 
darkness shrank back as night before dawn. And as 
the blackness vanished, so did all fear from Amerton’s 
heart, and with a sense of confidence and happiness, 
he looked into the face of the strange being. The 
music gradually ceased. 

The same feeling of mystery, a like soothing sensa- 
tion he had ever experienced when he believed some 
invisible presence near, now took possession of him. 
He was no longer awed or depressed, but calmed in- 
expressibly, fortified with mental strength, and filled 
with hope. 

Coming closer to him with noiseless footfall, Amuni 


AMUNI TIIE FAITHFUL ONE. 


121 


crossed his hands upon his breast in salutation, and in 
a voice sounding as from afar said : 

“ My son, though my form be strange to your sight, 
my presence is familiar to your spirit. Long have I 
known you, frequently have I stood by your side.” 

“ Then it was you,” cried Amerton, “ whose breath 
in the darkness of night I have felt upon my cheek, 
whose touch in hours of quiet assured me I was not 
alone.” 

“ Even so,” replied Amuni. 

“ Then why have I not beheld you as I do now ? ” 

“ Because your spiritual sight was not opened.” 

“ And you have known me from youth upwards.” 

“My knowledge of you extends through long ages 
before your present birth. In your last life, some 
hundreds of years ago, as men count time, you living 
in this country, were known to me as a student of 
occult lore. The world regarded you as an astrologer. 
The days upon which you had fallen were fraught with 
trouble for the land. Peering into the future, you had 
foretold the horrors of civil warfare, the violent death 
of your monarch, the exile and restoration of royalty. 
Many there were who believed, but more who ridiculed 
the science you professed. In your further search into 
the mysteries of life and death, into the vast secrets 
of nature, I was appointed your master.” 

“ Then have I learned knowledge from you ? ” 

“ Alas no,” answered Amuni. “ Had your spirit been 
as brave as your desires were strong, you had crossed 
the bridge parting mortals from immortals, and entered 
the golden gates of that land where wisdom shines as 
sunlight on the sea, and darkness dwells not.” 

“In what did I fail ? ” 

“ All students of occult lore must prove themselves 
worthy of the knowledge they seek. For every fresh 
revelation vouchsafed them new proof of moral strength 


122 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


is requiied. If absolute power over nature were given 
to those unworthy of trust, to those careless of using its 
force for good of humanity or sufficiently frail to apply 
it for evil, then ruin and desolation would encompass 
the world, You, my son, were tried and found wanting. 
No second opportunity is given a student in a single 
life.” 

“Alas,” Philip exclaimed, “how unhappy have I 
been ! ” 

“In the fulness of time, death closed your bodily 
eyes. Even as consciousness is suspended in sleep to 
re-awake at dawn, so your spirit rested in the night- 
time of space to rise at the appointed hour and begin 
the new day of your present life. Because of the love 
I bore you in the past, I have striven to help you in 
your present incarnation.” 

“ Master, friend,” cried Amerton, extending his hands 
to grasp those of Amuni ; but though he saw them meet 
those of the form before him, lie was unconscious of 
touch. Involuntarily he shrank back. 

Amuni smiled. “ You see but the semblance of my 
body,” he said, “ which, now wrapped in trance, rests in 
a land far from here ; this form you behold — like it in 
all things, possessing the same powers — is linked to its 
earthly counterpart by a vital chain, reuniting us at 
will.” 

“ Those things you have spoken,” said Amerton, “ fill 
me with wonder, and account for much that heretofore 
perplexed me. In the recognition of strange places, 
familiarity with old-world events, acquirements of 
knowledge concerning things unstudied, consciousness 
of another existence has gleamed upon me, as light- 
ning flashes revealing familiar landscapes to benighted 
travellers.” 

“ Your spirit still retains its old yearning for mystic 
lore.” 


AMUNI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 


123 


•* Aye, helpless to restrain my cravings, I have de- 
sired knowledge with infinite longing. Tell me,” he 
continued, “ shall it be granted me in this life ?” 

A sigh, weighted by grief, escaped Amuni’s lips, and 
his eyes were suddenly clouded by sorrow. 

“It depends on yourself,” he answered. “Others 
may carry grapes to our lips, we alone can taste of 
them.” 

“I am ready to undergo the necessary test,” said 
Amerton, feeling the throbbing of new strength within 
him. 

“ My son,” replied A muni gravely, and with volumes 
of melancholy in his tones, “ the path you would tread 
is fraught with darkness and danger. In your onward 
course temptation will assail, grief will attend, and 
humiliation lie down with you ; for Tis only when we 
have sown in pain and sorrow we may reap in peace 
and joy.” 

Amerton ’s head sank upon his breast for his heart 
was sorely troubled. 

“ Seek not knowledge higher than you already pos- 
sess,” said Amuni, “ and your days will be filled with 
honour as a garden with flowers ; your age crowned 
with peace as the hill-tops with snow. Thousands there 
are in this fair world of yours whose years are fraught 
with fear and pain, whose fate is barren hopes and 
broken hearts. These will be spared you if you seek 
not the higher path. But before your eyes behold the 
light of lore they must be washed with the brine of 
tears.” 

“ My master,” said the neophyte, “ are mortals but 
the sport of fate, or are we most divinely ruled? In 
the tempest of thoughts whirling through my brain, I 
know not what to say, and only feel I must obey a will 
within me higher than my own; pain will seem as 
pleasure if it leads to the goal my soul seeks. Show 


124 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


me the p.*ith to tread, and though sorrow clings to me 
and peace forsakes my heart, my feet shall be firm in 
the course they pursue, for I thirst for knowledge as 
parched grass for cooling rain, and long for repose as 
the hunted doe for rest.” 

‘‘My son,” replied A muni, “you neither know the 
nature nor the extent of the ordeal you would embrace. 
Your heart must be withdrawn from the desires and at- 
tractions of the senses. Though you live in the world, 
all it holds dear must be rooted from your nature, aye, 
though your heart should bleed and your life lie in 
darkness. Not in the fleeting present but in the 
eternal future must you seek peace ; earthly love must 
die in your heart, ambition hold no place in your mind. 
You must walk as a shadow amongst men, having no 
pleasure in aught they prize, no trust in those they 
honour, desiring only that lying beyond you. You 
must save your life by sacrificing it ; gain through loss ; 
die to live.” 

As Amerton listened, his soul was troubled anew, for 
he thought of the woman he had made his wife, the life 
he had taken to his own. But Amuni, as if reading 
his mind, replied : 

“You have married a wife and tasted the sacred joys 
of the household existence, even as did Gautama. But 
he, conquering nature, parted from her he loved with 
boundless ardour that he might embrace the holier life. 
The natural must be overcome that the eternal may be 
gained. By his passions is man chained to earth ; by 
self-conquest is he raised to heaven. Had you no 
knowledge of domestic love, your sacrifice would have 
missed its most poignant pang. The student of occult- 
ism must lead a celibate life.” 

“ Alas,” said Amerton, “ I am tortured to distraction ; 
my soul is rent in twain. How can I part from her 
whom I have sworn to cherish and protect ? ” 


AMUNI THE FAITHFUL ONE. 


125 


“ There is no need for parting,” replied Amnni ; 
‘‘ know you not there is a love higher than that founded 
on the senses.” 

Then there fell upon the room a silence as of death ; 
the young man wrestled with his soul. Thick drops of 
perspiration oozing from his face and the quick draw- 
ing of his breath betrayed strong struggle. The climax 
of his fate had arrived; on his decision now must rest 
his future life. Eventually urged by an inner force he 
was incapable of withstanding, he flung himself upon 
his knees before Amuni and said : 

“ Be my master, I shall obey in all things ; give me 
but the light I desire.” 

After a pause Amuni spoke to him : 

“Your course will consist of no set ordeal, of no 
special task. Trial by fire and flame is but symbolic of 
the test by passion and pain. As only when man has 
conquered death he really lives, so is it when inclina- 
tions are subdued the soul reigns. Events will occur 
in your daily life that will search your spirit and 
wrestle with your strength. Submit yourself to the will 
of the All Merciful, embrace the sorrows sent you, accept 
the lessons taught you, despise not the humiliations 
visited on you. When triumph crowns you, shall you 
behold me again.” 

With the index-figure of his right hand he pointed 
to a cross which two transverse lines had made on 
Amerton’s left palm. When the lattef raised his eyes 
from the sign, no trace of Amuni was visible. The great 
white light had vanished, the rays of the bronze lamp 
burned dim, and with arms wide stretched and face 
turned towards the east, Benoni knelt in prayer, his 
head bowed low the while. 


126 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


CHAPTER XI, 

THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 

A FORTNIGHT after Ulic Tarhert had heard from Gal 
Alex the words which extinguished his hope, he received 
a brief note from her bidding him call in the afternoon. 
Since the night of the Keans* reception he had made no 
attempt to see her. 

Young in years, quick to feel, impatient of pain, his 
disappointment deeply coloured his days. It seemed 
to him his future must remain a blank, that through all 
the years of his life he should be an observer of rather 
than a participator in joys common to humanity. Be- 
coming suddenly weary of all that had previously given 
him pleasure, existence grew distasteful. Forgetful that 
the sphere in which each man lives, bounded by the 
narrow circumference of his own thoughts, feelings, 
experiences, is not the great world at large, he vaguely 
wondered why all things remained unchanged whilst his 
life had materially altered. He shrank from social 
crowds, avoided the companionship of his friends, worked 
harder than before, and passed most of his evenings 
alone, smoking and dreaming of what might have been, 
whilst day blended with night, and darkness, befitting 
the sombre complexion of his mind, crept across the 
world. 

He had pondered continually over the words Gal Alex 
had spoken, wondering what was the mystery of her 
life, hoping he might be able to aid her in some way. 
Earnestly did he desire that circumstances would require 
him to make a great sacrifice for her sake. The days 
of knight errantry are over, but human nature remains 
ever the same, and he would gladly have engaged in 
combat and laid down his life for the lady of his heart. 


THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 


127 


Loving her exceedingly, doubt of her worth or honour 
never rose in his mind to impugn her fame or cool his 
^ ardour ; for as fire and water, affection and suspicion 
have no common abiding-place. Sympathy for the 
sorrow clouding her increased his tenderness tenfold ; 
for men love best natures which appeal to them most, 
80 that in woman’s weakness lies her strength. 

He would have sought change by going out of town, 
but some fascination held him near her ; and he regarded 
distraction from his thoughts as disloyalty to their 
object. Nor did he desire relief from his disappoint- 
ment if likewise it lessened his attachment ; he would 
not put love from him though it bore him sorrow. 
Through the potent power of this first affection all that 
was loyal and noble in his nature awoke ; that which had 
lain dormant in his life became active, The influence 
of the feminine upon the male, exemplified in all the 
kingdoms of nature, finding uttermost expression in 
humanity, was here perceptible. This love had come 
to him as spring to the earth, apprising his heart of the 
wonderful possibilities it contained of happinesses yet 
unknown. And now, though he might not enjoy the 
fruits of summer, he would not endure the insensibility 
of winter. 

It was morning when he received her note, and he 
impatiently awaited the hour at which he was bidden. 
The feelings and agitations crowded into this day would 
have sufficed for a year of his former existence. Count- 
ing time, not by calendar dates, but heart throbs, in 
the space of a few hours he lived a lifetime. But 
among the contending emotions which stirred him, hope 
was found wanting. 

Arriving at Gal Alex’s house he was shown into the 
study, a little room looking on a trim garden, with rose- 
trees climbing round the casements. In this apartment 
she worked through the brightest hours of day. The 


128 A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

walls were surrounded with bookshelves, on which her 
own novels, her favourite authors, and presentation 
copies of their works from contemporary writers were 
ranged like various companies of a common army. 

On the topmost shelf stood terra cotta busts, framed 
photographs, china figures, Indian vases, and various 
objects of art. On the walls above these hung portraits 
of her more famous friends. The only furniture in the 
study consisted of wide-armed easy chairs, a lounge, 
and a solid oak desk with many drawers, littered by 
papers and manuscripts. 

Gal Alex was seated at this desk, which stood in the 
middle of the room, when Ulic entered. She rose to 
greet him with some constraint, but no lack of kindness 
in her manner, and then asking him to sit down, resumed 
her place. 

From the position in which he stood the light fell 
full upon his face, and in a glance she read the change 
the past fortnight had wrought in him. Her first feel- 
ing was gratification that he had loved her well enough 
to feel so deeply ; her second, sorrow and self-reproach 
that she had caused him pain. The latter emotion 
expressed itself in her voice as she said : 

“ Why have you not been to see me ? ” 

“ I waited,” he answered, “ until you sent for me. 
Was it wrong ? ” he asked simply ; “ should I have come 
before?” 

“ I scarce know,” she replied gravely, leaning forward 
and resting her head upon one hand. “ Since that night 
I have been sadly confused, and until now could not 
speak of what is best for us.” 

That she had in thought joined his fate with hers, 
and in one word united herself with him, afforded him 
keen pleasure. 

“ But I have considered much,” she continued, striv- 
ing to speak calmly, lowering her eyes the while lest 


THE STOEY OF HER LIFE. 


129 


he might read all they expressed of pain and sorrow, 
“ and concluded it was best I should ask you to come 
here and listen to the story .of my life, then you will 
learn the cause which parts us.” 

He felt rather than perceived the struggle she made, 
and said, “ If it distresses you, I had rather you left it 
untold. At least, don’t tell me now ; wait until another 
time, or write if it will save you pain.” 

“No, no, no,” she replied sadly, “it had best be 
spoken to-day ; we all have to face pain some time ; if 
experience accustoms, I should be braver now.” 

She paused a couple of minutes, for the struggle was 
harder than she anticipated. His sympathy left him 
wordless because of its depth. / 

“ I have done wrong,” she said, “ and I now shrink 
from my punishment in the loss of your regard. See- 
ing months ago you were growing to care for me, I 
should have spoken before, and saved you from suffer- 
ing by checking your affection; but it’s hard for a 
woman to speak on such a subject before a man’s words 
have plainly paved her way ; and, moreover, your 
affection became so much to me I could not put it from 
me if I tried ; for you cannot conceive,” she said, tears 
welling up from her heart, “ the comfort and sweetness 
an honest man’s love gives a lonely woman’s life.” 

Her pale face was wet with tears. 

He sprang from his chair, and seating himself at the 
opposite side of the desk took one of her hands in both 
of his. Neither spoke for some time, but she by that 
one touch uniting them, understood all he would have 
said. 

“ Forgive me,” she murmured, “ I am weaker than I 
thought, but anxious days and sleepless nights have 
made me strangely nervous. From what I said you 
know,” she added, anxious to finish her sentence, “ or 
have suspected, I — I — am a wife.” 


ISO 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


The suspicion had risen in his mind and been 
promptly dismissed ; now her words confirmed bis sur- 
mise he started as if the idea occurred for the first time, 
and involuntarily removed his hand from hers. She 
glanced at him sorrowingly, then let her lids fall upon 
her burning cheeks. 

“ He is still living,” said Ulic in a hard cold voice. 

“ He is still living,” she repeated mechanically. 

Her words were an impassable barrier shutting out 
hope, and filled with a sense of his own misery, he had 
no thought for her. But soon his better nature resum- 
ing its sway, some perception of the suffering she must 
have endured flashed on him, and thinking of her grief 
he forgot his own. He thrust forward his hands to her 
once more, as if in this mute way he would express his 
deepest feelings for her wrongs, his perfect confidence 
in her honour. 

“Your trouble,” he said huskily, “surely affords 
fresh claim to my affection. I would stand between 
you and all sorrow and misfortune ; be to you more than 
all others, as you are more than all the world to me ; 
and yet I know not what to say, only I would give my 
life to save you from pain.” 

All traces of suffering vanished from her eyes ; a 
glow of pleasure transfigured her face, making her 
more youthful and beautiful than he had yet beheld 
her. 

“ Surely,” she answered, “ it is happiness enough for 
me to know I have so true a friend;” the shadows 
dwelling in her eyes departed from them. 

The mental brightness surrounding and emanating 
from her pierced and dispelled the black weight of grief 
oppressing him, and for the first time during many days 
he felt comforted. For a while neither broke the spell 
felt equally by both ; if only life were one prolonged 
period of these brief seconds, how happy could each 


THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 


131 


have been. Sorrow, care, and uncertainty fell from 
them ; the world they inhabited was solely bounded 
and influenced by their own feelings ; one was in all 
things sufficient to the other. At last, as troubled 
thoughts of earth long left behind may cross the 
memory of the blest, so did recollections of her past 
history cloud her present happiness ; and with a sigh 
upon her lips, she said : 

“ Why is it, I wonder, youth is so often a period of 
bitter mistakes which later years in vain strive to repair ? 
Filled with false trust in omrselves, sanguine because of 
our untried strength, we take steps which the efforts of 
time are unable to retrieve. No girl was happier than 
I during my early years. An orphan from childhood, I 
was reared by an aunt, who treated me as her daughter 
and regarded me as her heiress. Living in a quiet 
village on the Cornish coast, I was shut out from the 
world at large, and grew up wholly ignorant of its ways. 
I might never have known care or sorrow had I not one 
fatal hour met a man who possessed fascinations for me 
I was powerless to resist. From that day I lived. I 
was not wholly blind to the evil possibilities of his 
nature, which clearly pointed to rocks on which a 
woman’s happiness might readily be wrecked ; but his 
profession as a clergyman seemed to my inexperienced 
eyes a guarantee for his better feelings, and woman-like 
I feared and loved the danger before me.” 

Ulic heard her with breathless attention. 

“ Knowing my aunt — who from the first had read 
him aright — would never consent to our union, he per- 
suaded me to marry him privately, believing she might 
pardon me when our marriage was made known. In 
this he was mistaken. Heartily disliking the man, and 
aware his object was to gain her wealth through me, 
she expressed her displeasure by ignoring us. My 
husband soon moved to a more populous town, partly 


182 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


that I might be separated from the one friend and pro- 
tector I had in the world, but principally that amongst 
a larger community he might enjoy greater liberty of 
action. The knowledge of having wilfully deceived the 
kindest of relatives and best of women was a sorrow 
daily added to by a gradual perception that I had been 
wedded for sake of my expectations. The man to whom 
I had given the fulness of my girlish affections, soon 
wearied of a love he never valued and was incapable of 
returning.” 

She paused as if to gather strength, for there was 
that to come which gave her keener pain. 

I could have borne this,” she continued, “ but his 
scarce concealed profligacies revolted me. Henceforth 
my life with him became one scene of misery.” 

Again she hesitated, the colour flushing her cheeks, 
her breath coming hard and quick, her eyes avoiding 
the pitiful look of him to whom she bared the history 
of her life. 

“ By way of avenging his disappointment at receiving 
no portion with me,” she went on, “ he had recourse to 
a thousand petty tyrannies, and once when I resisted 
them he struck me to the ground. The blow killed 
the child I should have borne him.” 

Ulic clenched his right hand. “The brute,” he 
exclaimed. 

“ Though painful for both of us, I must tell you all,” 
she said, “ that you may better understand my posi- 
tion. The bitterness which filled me, strengthened 
me to live through days of mental darkness. My heart 
froze, and all my love for him turned to loathing before 
a year of our wedded life had passed. He had rudely 
torn the mask from his character, and I saw how hope- 
lessly irredeemable were his ways. To his other vices 
he added that of gambling. This passion led him from 
the card-table to the turf, which was finally the means 


133 


THE STORY OF HER LIFE, 

of his ruin ; for, losing heavily, he had recourse to 
forgery, and being discovered, was convicted as a felon. 
This social catastrophe and bitter disgrace were wel- 
come to me ; not through a spirit of revenge, but from 
a sense of relief. The man who had wrecked my life 
because I loved him, was removed from me, and I was 
free from a foreboding of evil which had hung over me 
for months, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from 
my heart. Through this dreadful time I only recog- 
nized the fact of my freedom; and though I was 
severed from my youth by what seemed an existence 
of pain, some of its old brightness shone on me across 
the gulf parting my past and present. I should have 
been quite dependent on my own efforts for support 
had not my aunt taken me to her home. Leaving the 
country where my history was well known, we severed 
ourselves from all connection with its people, and 
settled in a quiet village in Surrey. I assumed my 
maiden name, and we took every precaution possible 
that my husband should not be able to trace us on his 
liberation.” 

“ Did he strive to do so ? ” asked Ulic impatiently. 

“ I cannot say. In our new retreat we lived peace- 
ably for years. So soon as the first sense of repose and 
relief had worn away, I felt perfect rest would hence- 
forth become an impossibility to me. Like stains of 
blood on a murderer’s hand, invisible to all eyes but 
his, so the contamination of a past unknown to the 
world weighed heavily upon me. Grhosts of the miser- 
able year which I thought had been safely laid to rest, 
haunted me. In hours of quiet, when the pulse of 
thought beat slow, dire and cruel remembrances of 
black and bitter days passed in shadowy procession 
before my mental sight.” 

‘‘ Poor child ! ” he said. 

One day it occurred to me I could best rid myself 


1S4 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


of these spectres by exposing them to the light of 
public gaze; if shared with the world at large, my 
secret must cease to oppress my life. I would write it 
down. Selecting a plot admitting situations like those 
I had known, yet sufficiently removed from actual 
events to escape detection, I told the history of my life, 
reflecting in my pages, passions and miseries I had 
experienced. You may remember the result. The 
world never fails to recognize the genuine mark of 
nature in art. I became famous by a single book. 
Some faint cry from a lonely woman’s heart found 
answering echoes in the four quarters of the globe. In 
some mysterious way I touched hands with crowds and 
felt they were my kin.” 

She was silent a minute as if reviewing the past ; 
Ulic did not disturb her. 

‘‘I had sheltered myself,” she continued, "under the 
nom de plume of Gal Alex ; but notwithstanding this 
a danger arose I had not foreseen, of my real name 
being discovered and my history revealed. The public 
is childishly curious regarding the private lives of those 
who amuse or instruct it; however, I managed to elude 
its inquiries until its first eagerness was gratified by a 
false and harmless sketch of my life invented by an 
ingenious editor of a society paper, and left uncontra- 
dicted by me. Naturally I shrank from publicity and 
coveted obscurity. Two years after the publication of 
my first novel, my aunt died, having settled on me all 
she possessed. The home in which she had been a 
familiar figure, brightening the dark places of my life, 
became henceforth unendurable. A solitary woman, I 
found the country depressing ; the attraction luring 
the moth towards flame brought me to the centre of 
art and letters.” 

" And you came to London ? ” 

" Yes ; I fancied I could hide myself in this crowded 


THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 


135 


city. At first, tliougli surrounded by millions, my life 
was as solitary as when I had lived in a Surrey village. 
Having few sympathies with the public at large and 
no ties I lived for my work alone. My whole existence 
was bounded by the worlds I created and governed ; 
their denizens were my only friends ; but at times 
loneliness pressed heavily upon me and I longed with 
keen longing for companionship. Years spent in this 
self-elected solitude, during which I never touched the 
hand of a woman I trusted, never heard the sound of a 
voice I loved, strengthened my nature. The old sense 
of fear and depression, sad results of a year of pain, 
gradually ceased to affect me. Moreover I had heard 
nothing of my husband since his conviction, and a 
hope that he would never again darken my life took 
possession of and filled me with courage. By degrees 
I allowed the strict seclusion long maintained to be 
intruded upon, and I entered society to receive a hearty 
welcome. Through my pages the world had come to 
know me, and its friendship dated back some years 
previous to our actual acquaintance. In the course of 
time men have asked my hand in marriage, but until 
I saw you, none had the power of awakening my 
love.” 

Ulic made a movement as if he would speak. 

“ I am coming to the end of my story,” she said, 
placing her hand lightly on his arm, ‘‘ let me finish. 
I speak plainly, for truth is ever best, and indeed con- 
cealment of my feelings from you would be impossible. 
Looking into my heart and seeing its aiSections had 
already escaped control, I became anxious and miser- 
able ; and as if my present happiness had touched 
some secret spring in the wonderful mechanism of 
nature, remembrances of my girlish love, with its 
tender awakening and bitter ending, came vividly back 
to me. A presentiment dwelt with me continmilly that 


136 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


fate, .having given me some years of peace, was about 
to turn a new page in my life. Nor was I wrong.” 

She leaned back in her chair, her face expressing 
dejection, her attitude betraying weariness. 

“ You will perhaps remember,” she said, " we two 
sat in an alcove one evening at Mrs. Netley’s house.” 

‘‘ As if it were but yesterday,” he replied. 

“ And as we talked Benoni entered the room.” 

“ And came straight towards us.” 

“ Yes. I had heard of the wonderful power he 
possessed of reading the lives of those with whom he 
came in contact, and being naturally credulous regard- 
ing things supernatural, I believed the statements 
made and shrank from his observation.” 

“Yes,” said Ulic eagerly. 

“ Nervous from fear and anxious to ascertain if his 
powers were such as had been stated, I asked him for a 
flower.” 

“ And he produced a tulip or picked up one we had 
not noticed before.” 

“ He did more than that.” 

“ More ? ” 

“ As I glanced at the flower I saw it contained a note. 
This I concealed until I was alone. Here it is,” she 
added, opening a little drawer and producing a slip of 
foreign note-paper, which she handed to Ulic, who read 
the following words : “ Take courage. The day shall 
be when love will reign in your heart as a moon in 
heaven calming a troubled sea. In doubt or danger 
send for me. I would serve you.” 

“ I pondered over these words night and day,” she 
continued, “ for they comforted me exceedingly. I no 
longer doubted or distrusted him ; this bit of paper 
and the knowledge it seemed to convey of my past 
served as a bond between us. Three days before that 
on which you asked me to be your wife, I sent for him. 


THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 


137 


It had occurred to me that perhaps my husband no 
longer livedj and that even whilst I considered myself 
bound to him I was really a free woman. This idea, 
begotten of hope, could not readily be suppressed. I 
dared not make inquiries of the prison officials, and I 
knew none whom I could trust save you, whom I shrank 
from employing on such an errand. Therefore I re- 
quested Benoni to call on me. Finding he was not 
only aware of the principal acts but of the minute 
details of my life, I asked if my husband still lived. 
This he was unable to say at the time, but promised he 
would ascertain for me in a couple of days. I asked 
him to call on me one evening, at a time when I 
believed I should be alone ; he selected that on which 
you spoke to me. You • met him as you left the 
house.” 

“ What did he say ? ” Ulic asked anxiously. 

She bowed her head and her words came slow. 

“ That he was not only alive, but near me.” 

Ulic uttered a moan, but did not venture to speak 
for some seconds. Then he said, almost in a whisper, 
“ Perhaps it is false ; I shall make inquiries to-morrow.” 

“ It is true,” she said decisively. 

“ How do you know ? ” he asked. 

“ I have seen him.” 

“ Here?” 

“ No, not here, thank God. A few minutes after you, 
on the night of the Keans’ reception, had seen me to 
my brougham it was blocked for a moment at the 
corner of the street. As I looked up to see the cause, 
a face was thrust against the window, and in a second 
I recognized — my husband.” 

Good heavens ! ” cried Tarbert. 

During the short silence which ensued he strove to 
devise some means by which he could protect the 
woman he loved from the possible annoyance or ex- 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


138 

posure this liberated felon might attempt, but none 
presented themselves to his troubled mind. 

“ And now,” she said, nerving herself for a great 
effort, “ forget you have ever spoken to me of your love; 
forget that you would have made me your wife.” 

You are cruel,” he said reproachfully. 

“ Only to be kind. Believe me it will be best. You 
are a man and love is not to you what it is to me. In 
a little while you will live down the disappointment 
felt at present ; I will fade from your memory. Aye, 
it is best and wisest, no doubt, it should be so. It may 
be,” she added, wuth a struggle for utterance, “ another 
woman happier than I can ever be, may win the love I 
am powerless to accept; if so, dear friend ” 

She broke down, and hid her face that he might not 
see her bitter tears. 

“ I shall never leave you, never forget you,” he said. 

She lifted her head and smiled sadly. ‘‘ Never,” she 
replied, “ is a long time and the changes years bring 
are many.” 

“ You doubt me ? ” he said. 

“Not your present feelings. But why should you 
devote the best period of your life to me ? Whilst 
that man exists we can never be more to each other 
than we are to-day ; he may live as long as you, or 
longer than I. What I am going to say may be cruel, 
but is certainly true. You have seen a roller pass over 
a field ; the ground which before was rough, is then 
levelled. The roller typifies time, levelling, not 
mounds, but subduing hearts. Leave me now, leave 
England ; in a few years you will forget me, and some 
good woman will one day thank heaven for your love, 
even as I would have done could it have been lawfully 
mine. 

He listened to her with a sinking heart, and gazed 
at her with reproachful eyes. 


THE STOEY OF HER LIFE. 


139 


“ Tliis,” he said, “ is your affection for me ; yon 
cannot love me or you would never speak such words.” 

She strove to answer him, but failed. The struggle 
was again too strong for her, and once more she buried 
her head in her hands and cried as if her heart would 
break.^ It is bitter pain to see those we love suffer, 
whilst we look on powerless to aid. 

“ Poor child ! ” he said, writhing in his chair and 
knowing not what to say. 

If she heard him she made no sign. A storm of 
tears, violent from suppression, shook her frame ; her 
choking sobs alone broke the silence of the room. 
When her passion had almost exhausted itself he spoke 
to her. 

“ You did not mean to send me away ? ” he said. 

“ I did ; it will be for your good.” 

“ It might also be for my evil. Would it cause you 
pain if you were never to see me again ? ” 

“ Ah, you know it would ; but I should strive to find 
comfort in thinking I had advised you for the best.” 

“ And you would forget me ? ” 

‘‘ God knows I never could.” 

“ Then why ask me to forget you ? Do you fancy 
your love for me is stronger than mine for you ; that I 
could find peace or happiness wholly separated from 
you?” 

“ A woman’s love is ever stronger than a man’s ; to 
her it is a principle of her life, to him an incident in 
his career.” 

“ This is not true of all women nor of all men. It is 
not true of me. My affection for you is the keystone 
of my existence ; take it away and my whole life falls 
to ruin. No, we must not part. You say we cannot 
be more than friends, then let us be friends indeed. 
There have been and are yet friendships existing 
between men and women more pure from their un- 


140 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


selfishness, more noble from their disinterestedness than 
any other tie. The world, because of its inherent evil, 
neither understands nor appreciates such bonds; but 
need you care for its malice if your own heart acquits 
of wrong ? I shall ask no more than to stand first in 
your love, that you may feel in this wide world you are 
not alone, that the strength of a heart loving you full 
well is yours to lean upon in trial and trouble. And if 
the sad tangle of your life is finally righted, then will 
I claim my reward ; if not, we may be united eternally 
in another world, more merciful than this has been.” 

“ And would you,” she asked, love and admiration 
blended in her eyes, expressed in her voice--“ would 
you wait for me all these years ? ” 

“ Aye, I would wait for you to the last day of my 
life.” 

“ Surely,” she said, “ this is rare and perfect love, 
the highest man can know or woman inspire.” Her 
face glowed with happiness and gratitude. 

“ You accept me as your friend ? ” he asked. 

She gave him her hand, which he raised to his lips, 
and the bond between them was sealed. 

‘‘ And now,” he said, “ that I am your counsellor in 
all things, let me enter at once upon the duties of my 
office. This man having discovered you, there is no 
knowing what tactics he may employ to distress or 
humiliate you. Let me guard and direct your life.” 

“ You must not take my troubles upon yourself.” 

“ This after all I have told you,” he said reproach- 
fully. 

“ Dear friend, may God bless you.” 

The words had scarce been uttered when both heard 
the bell ring through the house in a long-sustained 
peal. A moment later a servant knocked at the door, 
and entered the room bearing a note on a salver. Gral 
Alex opened it and read the single line it contained, 


TRIUMPH AND TElVIPTAnON. 141 

I want to see you — Amos Berkeley.” Her colour 
went and her hands trembled. 

“Where is the bearer?” she asked. 

“ In the hall, ma’am.” 

“ Let him remain there at present. Gro into the 
dining-room whilst I write a reply, and come for it 
when I ring.” 

The servant quietly disappeared. 

Gal Alex looked at Ulic. “Amos Berkeley,” she 
said, “ has come to see me.” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“ My husband,” she answered. 


CHAPTER XII. 

TRIUMPH AND TEMPTATION. 

During the early hours of the day on which Ulic 
Tarbert called on Gal Alex, Mrs. Netley sat in the 
morning room of her house at Palace Gardens. It 
was yet too early for lunch, a fact accounting to some 
extent for the expression of dissatisfaction her homely 
feature bore. Certainly to her, as to others, the world 
looked brighter after luncheon, and far happier yet 
when dinner was a thing of the past. It is instructive 
to consider how hope rises as appetite is satiated ; how 
peace with oneself and mankind is attained by an 
excellent meal. 

The thoughts ruffling the serenity of Mrs. Netley’s 
mind just now were such as the most dainty banquet 
could not permanently banish. Foremost amongst her 
grievances was the fact she yet remained a commoner, 
and Lord Pompey was still unwed. For three years 
she had devoted her energies to persuading him heaven 


,143 A MODERN MAGICIAN, 

had destined her for his bride; and fearing he put 
more faith in judgments formulated on earth, she had 
striven to convince the world of her suitability for the 
desired position. 

Mrs. is'etley was aware that morally he was a roiiAf 
physically a wreck, intellectually a fool ; but she like- 
wise knew he was brother of a duke, and in true British 
spirit she prostrated herself before nobility — not of 
nature, which is merely God’s handiwork, but of rank, 
which is of man’s creation. To unite herself with the 
family of a peer; to have her alliance recorded in 
Bebrett and Burke, w^ the highest ambition to which 
her feeble soul aspired. Having attained the title of 
courtesy which marriage with Lord Pompey would 
secure, she could die happily and pass into another 
sphere as a woman of distinction. Or, on the other 
hand, if the years of Lord Pompey’s married life were 
few, grief would not rend her heart, and consolation for 
his absence would remain to her in belief he had gone 
to a world where consideration due to his rank would 
temper the treatment he received. 

He had accepted her blandishments with charming 
courtesy, had smiled graciously at her wiles, continu- 
ally availed himself of her hospitality, but had not 
offered to make her his wife. He had fluttered airily 
gracefully and brightly around her, but when she had 
sought to capture him he had tantalisingly flown away ; 
an action which occasioned her vexation of spirit. 

This conduct on Lord Pompey’s part wsis caused by 
the remembrance of his brother, the sixteenth Duke of 
Bloomsbury, a shrivelled old mummy with a wig, a 
prominent nose, and red eyelids, who entertained the 
uttermost respect and admiration for himself as head of 
his illustrious house. 

The anniversary of the day it had pleased heaven to 
send him on earth, he invariably celebrated by clothing 


TRIUMPH AND TEMPTATION. 


143 


himself in the tarnished splendour of a court suit, 
wearing the garter on his shrivelled knee, and the blue 
ribbon of the order, somewhat besmeared with snuff, 
across his shrunken breast. The sight of such pomp 
and state had due effect upon a circle of poor relations 
bidden to celebrate this annual festivity, as likewise 
upon Lord Pompey’s somewhat feeble mind. 

Now the latter had once outraged his noble family 
by marriage with a player; and when the c;itastrophe 
came which left him penniless, or, in the words of his 
counsel pleading for divorce, “ ruined the happiness of 
his life,” he was only taken back to his own on con- 
dition that he never contracted a second alliance 
without gaining the consent of the head of his house. 
Lord Pompey had always stood in reverent awe of his 
ducal brother, and notwithstanding the financial ad- 
vantages a union with Mrs. Netley would insure, felt 
reluctant to introduce into the family circle a lady 
whose antecedents were said to have been connected 
with pork. 

For three years Mrs. Netley had wooed Lord Pompey, 
and now concluded if he remained indifferent to her 
wishes, she would devote her energies to some more 
hopeful object. A woman of ciear judgment and keen 
foresight, she had conceived a plan she trusted would 
decide her fate regarding him. She resolved on asking 
him to luncheon, and the repast being finished, an- 
nouncing her intention of going abroad and remaining 
there an indefinite period. If ever he intended making 
her his wife, he w*ould then, she argued, when there 
was a possibility of her being lost to him for ever, 
declare his intentions. If he remained silent she 
w'ould draw her own conclusions, and, journeying to 
the continent, seek there the distinction her countiy 
refused. 

In France and Italy, she under.st(X)d, tules were 


144 


A JMODliJiN MAGICIAN. 


easily purchased ; invariably creatures with waxed mous- 
taches were attached to them, who frequently became 
hindrances to domestic bliss ; but the matrimonial lot- 
tery was all chance and no certainty, ^'oreign titles, 
she reflected, had an imposing sound, though English 
people sneered at them as being frequently associated 
with charlatans or bankrupts. Her wealth, she felt con- 
fident, would win the regard and envy of a nobility 
whose purses were as light as their pedigrees were long ; 
and no doubt some poor prince, a noble creature with 
a haughty mien, the inheritor of a historic name and 
a ruined palace by a lake, in which he never bathed, 
would offer her his heart for a certain consideration. 
What would it matter were he a pagan, or even a 
papist, if she could boast of the blood-stained traditions 
of her house ? What would she care even if the last 
penny of her fortune was swallowed by his debts, and 
she was compelled to live on macaroni and Parmesan 
cheese for the remainder of her life, so long as she was 
a Marquese del Malachite or a Princess de Paladin ? 
As Eichard the Third offered his kingdom for a horse, 
so was she willing to give her fortune for a title. 

Thinking over her ^:^oreign prospects for a time re- 
duced her anxiety c«y5cerning Lord Pompey. He was 
not in himself romantic ; his title was one of courtesy, 
and the ravages of time were perceptible in his appear- 
ance on days when his valet was careless. But then he 
belonged to a ducal family, and English dukes, no 
matter how ignoble their origin, were regarded by all 
mortals who were not low radicals with fear and trem- 
bling. She would feel happier in marrying Lord Pom- 
pey than in facing the uncertainties of a foreign market. 
To-day must certainly decide her actions ; by his man- 
ner would she shape her future course. 

A secondary cause for the gravity expressed in her 
broad featuret was the result of her niece’s marriage. 


TEIUMPII AND TEMPTATION. 


145 


Miriam had wed the man of her choice, but Mrs. 
Netley’s common sense enabled her to see this union, 
like so many marriages made for love, had not resulted 
in happiness. 

Philip Amerton was in all seeming an excellent 
husband, and his wife made no complaint, but there 
existed between them a lack of sympathy, less difficult 
to perceive than explain. Mrs. Netley might have 
accepted this as the usual result of matrimony, but 
it grieved her not a little that since his union 
Philip gradually shrank from society and had failed to 
introduce his wife to personages of light and leading 
amongst whom he was a familiar spirit. This Mrs. 
Netley on behalf of her niece resented. 

She had always considered Philip eccentric, but since 
his marriage, and especially within the last three 
months, his constant abstraction, seeming depression, 
and visible weariness struck her as being decidedly odd, 
and utterly unbecoming in a newly-married man. Be- 
tween him and Mrs. Netley thorough friendship had 
never existed ; now Philip avoided her whenever it was 
possible to do so without rudeness. To-day she had 
asked him and his wife to luxj,:h-on, but as usual, he 
had refused, and by way of filling his place Mrs. Netley 
had bidden Colonel Tarbert, he being the first person 
whose name arose in her memory. That there was 
danger in bringing him and her niece together some- 
what frequently, as she had of late, never occurred to 
her unsuspicious mind ; for assuredly she considered, if 
a girl had declined a man’s affections whilst she was 
free to accept them, she would feel less inclined to 
receive when bound to reject them. Not being a 
philosopher, Mrs. Netley was unaware that what we 
regard with indifference when within our grasp, assumes 
inordinate allurements and disproportionate value once 
beyond our reach. In fact, for many months past her 


346 


A MODERN ]\rAGICTAN. 


thoughts being wholly centred on Lord Pompey to the 
exclusion of all other interests, she did not therefore 
perceive that between Colonel Tarbert and ]Mrs. Anier- 
ton an intimacy had sprung up which afforded gossip to 
the town. 

Mrs. Netley was still busy with her schemes regard- 
ing Lord Pompey when Miriam entered. Seating her- 
self in a low chair beside her aunt she said : 

Philip could not come to-day, as he wrote to tell 
you.” 

Humph,” said Mrs. Netley, tossing back her head 
impatiently. 

‘‘ He said I was to plead his excuses ; he is very busy 
just now.” 

“ That’s what he always says.” 

“ He has signed an agreement to write a story for 
the ‘Washington Magazine,’ and is behindhand with 
the greater portion of it ; he says he will never again 
undertake to write a serial unless he can place the com- 
pleted manuscript in the editor’s hands before a chapter 
of it is printed. I heartily wish this was finished.” 

“MTiy?” asked Mrs. Netley, scanning her niece’s 
face, and noting it had lost much of its usual bright- 
ness. 

“Well, he works too hard, and then becomes terribly 
irritable ; the slightest thing upsets him.” 

“ But he doesn’t visit his temper upon you, I hope, 
dear ; that’s a thing a young wife should put down at 
once or her future life may become a martyrdom.” 

“ It is not temper,” replied the younger woman, “ he 
never complains, nor has he ever used a harsh word to 
me ; it might be easier to bear if he would, only he 
becomes restless, looks worn, and grows tired of all 
things.” 

“ He wants change ; you must make him go abroad 
for a few weeks.” 


TKiu:\rrii and te:mptation. 


ur 

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t take my advice on that sub- 
ject; you see it would interfere with his work, and I 
fancy he lives for that alone,” she concluded with an 
air of sadness. 

“ Nonsense, child, I’m sure he’s fond of you ; but 
young wives are always jealous of whatever occupies 
their husbands’ time. Would you have him tied to 
your apron-string all day long ? ” 

Mrs Amerton neither smiled nor replied ; it was 
doubtful if she heard the last remark. After a few 
seconds spent in abstraction or deliberation she said ; 

“ Do you know, I fear I have never understood him, 
and that I am unsuited to be his wife. He should have 
married some clever woman who would have helped 
him in his work, and been more a companion than. I 
can ever be to him.” 

“You mustn’t think that, child. A clever man 
shouldn’t marry a fool, but he certainly shouldn’t wed- 
a woman as wise as himself, or they would hate each 
other in a month. No, my dear, your husband is 
somewhat eccentric — most authors are I have heard, 
and indeed they have always seemed odd to me — but 
you will come to understand his ways in the course of 
a little time, and settle down as happily as most 
husbands and wives.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” she asked, as if such a 
probability seemed most uncertain to her. 

“ I’m certain of it.” 

“Do you know — ” Miriam began, and then paused 
abruptly, adding after a slight pause, “ 1 doubt if I had 
better tell you.” 

“ I am so much older, my dear, and my advice 
may be able to help you,” replied the matron, who if 
somewhat foolish regarding the one ambition of her 
life, was kindly and sensible when confronted with 
other subjects. 


148 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“Well, I scarce like to admit it even to m;yself,” 
said the young wife, “ but I fear Philip doesn’t love 
me.” ^ 

“ If not, he would never have married you.” 

“He may have wed me because of some passing 
fancy, which has worn itself out in a few months.” 

Mrs. Netley smiled complacently before answering. 

“ That is what all young wives think. They expect a 
man to keep at the honeymoon fever-heat of devotion 
all his life ; and when he sobers down to every day 
affection, they imagine he no longer cares for them. 
It is not in human nature that a man should continue 
violently in love with his wife after the first six months 
of wedded life. My dear, be rational, and take the 
world as it comes and humanity as it is, and make the 
best of them.” 

“Ah,” replied the younger woman, “you don’t 
understand.” 

“ Of course not ; when two persons don’t agree to 
think alike on a common subject, one always believes 
the other doesn’t understand. But of one thing rest 
assured, Philip is very fond of you.” 

If Mrs. Amerton believed her aunt, the words brought 
no consolation in their train ; no gleam of satisfaction 
lit her face. Perceiving this, Mrs, Netley like many 
others, became the more anxious to convince, because 
having little faith in her assertions. 

“ Besides,” she said, “ literary men of all others must 
live so much to themselves and in the world they create, 
not merely when engaged upon the mere mechanical 
labour of writing, but whilst thinking of their characters 
nd weaving their plots; and if they are silent and 
absorbed a wife may naturally think herself neglected. 
With painters it is different; they talk whilst they 
work, and can judge of effects when colours are on 
the canvas. But an author must gauge his labour 


TRIUMPH AND TEMPTATION, 


149 


mentally, and the full effort of his mind must be 
devoted to his task.” 

Stiil M^'s. Amerton remained unsatisfied with her 
aunt’s explanations ; womanlike she would not be 
persuaded against her will. She remained silent for 
some time, looking straight before her the w^hile, then, 
as if continuing a train of thought, said : 

“ If it were not for Benoni, I fancy Philip would not 
be as he is; but the mystic is continually with him, 
and after his visits, Philip seems to shrink from me as 
if I burdened his life. This man has some influence 
over him I dread without understanding.” 

“ Dear child,” replied the matron, anxious to comfort 
her niece, “ mysticism is but a passing craze from which 
he will recover in a few months. It’s the fashion to-day ; 
a couple of years ago it was aestheticism, now it is 
occultism ; next year it will be some other ism, for men 
and women are but grown children, and must have toys 
to play with and keep them amused.” 

“ If I thought it was merely a passing fancy of his, I 

would she stopped suddenly and then began a 

fresh sentence : “ What you say may be true regarding 
the world, but concerning Philip, I believe it is diffe- 
rent. With him mysticism is no craze, but part of his 
life, and I feel sure he will never change.” 

Before Mrs. Netley could reply^ the door opened and 
Colonel Tarbert was announced. Miriam had not 
known he would be present, and her first feeling of 
surprise was succeeded by one of pleasure. His heavy- 
lidded eyes glittered as they fell upon her, and the 
smile of self-satisfaction usually lingering in the lines 
round his mouth, broadened perceptibly. He was soon 
seated between Mrs. Netley and Miriam, talking 
volubly on topics of the day. 

IVesently Lord Pompey came tripping into the room 
and smiling joyously as if he and all the world were 


150 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


young. His tall figure was carefully packed in fault- 
lessly fitting clothes ; his auburn hair was beautiful to 
behold ; his cheeks glowed with a colour representative 
of rude health and happy youth. 

Luncheon was soon announced, but before entering 
the dining-room, INlrs. Netley found an opportunity of 
saying to her niece: 

“My dear, I want to have a few minutes’ private 
conversation with dear Lord Pompey after lunch ; you 
will see that I have an opportunity. Afterwards I may 
have something to communicate to you,” she added, 
with a smile conveying volumes of meaning. 

The luncheon was veritably a dainty banquet — light 
appetising, delicate, exhilarating. The dishes which 
continual experience had taught Mrs. Netley Lord 
Pompey best appreciated were set before him. He 
toyed with truffles, tasted ortolans, drank claret of a 
famous vintage, and champagne which had come from 
an imperial cellar. He enjoyed himself to the full, as 
did Colonel Tarbert likewise ; but their companions 
being anxious, by no means participated in their satis- 
faction. 

“ Every one is fjdking of your husband’s article on 
‘Modern Mysticism’ in the ‘Nineteenth Century,”’ 
said Colonel Tarbert to j\Irs. Amerton. 

“ I must say I don’t understand it,” remarked Lord 
Pompey. 

“ t can quite believe that,” answered the Colonel, 
emphatically. 

“ Eh,” said Lord Pompey, “ wonder what he 
means ? ” 

“IMysticism, you see, is not meant to be under- 
stood.” 

“You sometimes read, Lord Pompey?” asked Mrs. 
Amerton, 

“Yes, frequently— when I want to sleep.” , 


TRIUMPH AND TEMPTATION”. 


i^r 

Then what form of literature do you select — news- 
papers ? ” 

‘‘No, I never read daily papers ; it is quite a waste 
of time. I did once, but the effect was unpleasant ; 
their eternal politics, vulgar tragedies, and sensational 
leaders got mixed in my dreams.” 

“ You should read shilling novels.” 

“ Wonder,” he soliloquized, “ if she writes them. All 
women do nowadays ; must ask her — hem.” Then he 
said aloud, whilst a faded simper spread itself across 
the bright colours of his complexion, “ Do you, my 
dear young lady, write books ? ” 

“ No,” she replied, “ I’m not clever enough.” 

“ Alphonse Carr says,” Colonel Tarbert remarked, 
“ a woman who writes, commits two sins — she increases 
the number of books, and decreases the number of 
women.” 

“ He was a foreigner,” Mrs. Netley said. 

“And, by gad, a gallant man,” added Lord Pompey. 

“ Certainly a wise one,” said the colonel. 

“ If some of our friends heard you they would not be 
pleased.” 

“ Perhaps not,” replied the colonel. “ A couple of 
generations ago every woman believed she was sent 
into the world for a husband ; but now the majority are 
convinced their mission is to write ; and since the days 
of Charlotte Bronte, every rectory sends forth its 
volumes yearly, yet no second ‘Jane Eyre* has ap- 
peared.” 

' “You agree with Alphonse Carr?” asked Mrs. 
Netley. 

“ Thoroughly.” 

“ And think women were sent into existence ” 

’ “ Merely to mate with man.” 

Mrs. Netley rose; they all entered an adjoining 
sitting-room. The hostess seated herself on the sofa, 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


15T 

leaving room for a second person. A low fire burned 
on the hearth close by ; she took up a hand-screen to 
shield her face from observation and protect her eyes 
from the blaze. Lord Pompey followed and sat down 
beside her, whilst Mrs. Amerton and Colonel Tarbert, 
having lingered for a while over an etching of Andrea 
Mantegna’s Dance of Nymphs, withdrew into a smaller 
drawing-room. 

“ Charming woman,” said Lord Pompey from his 
corner of the sofa ; figure portly and not ungraceful ; 
hands and face a trifle coarse, but then not bad style in 
all ; and what a delightful hostess,” he added, observing 
her critically, and shaking his head into which the 
champagne had flown. 

“ Lord Pompey,” said his companion severely, be- 
cause displeased with his audible remarks, “I have 
come to a decision this week, which as an old friend, 
I must tell you.” 

“ Thank you,” he replied, with a simper, adding in 
an aside, “Wonder what the deuce is coming.” 

“ I am about to leave England.” 

“ To leave England,” he echoed in genuine surprise, 
for such a possibility had never occurred to him. “ For 
long ? ” he asked. 

“ It may be for years,” she answered pathetically. 

“ Deuce take it, she doesn’t want to marry me after 
all,” he said sotto voce, feeling hurt because of her want 
of taste or lack of enterprise, but appreciating her all 
the more. 

“ You see,” she added, stimulated by success to con- 
tinue her part, “ I can readily let my house, and my 
niece being married I have no ties binding me to 
England.” 

“ Didn’t think I’d lose her like this,” he rnuttered ; 
then added in a louder key, “ where are you going ? ” 

“ To Italy,” she answered. 


TEIUI^IPH AND TEMPTATION. 


153 


Some foreign adventurer will marry her,” he con- 
sidered aloud, “ some fellow with a tenor voice, a 
guitar, and a romantic name ; they are always waiting 
for English widows or American heiresses.” 

“ Of course,” Mrs. Netley remarked, with a touch of 
pathos in her voice, ‘‘ it will be quite a wrench to part 
from many friends, and — and from you in particular, 
dear Lord Pompey.” 

“ Dear lady,” he said ; then speaking to himself 
added, “ Gad, she’s in love with me after all — clever 
woman — excellent taste, egad.” 

Mrs. Netley waited, played with her hand-screen, 
and then threw down her trump card. ‘‘No matter,” 
she said, “ where I am, by whom I may be surrounded, 
I shall think of you, and ever dear Lord Pompey, with 
tenderness.” 

She laid the hand nearest him on the sofa, perceiv- 
ing which he immediately seized it in both his own. 

“ Gad,” he soliloquized audibly, “ I have a mind to 
risk it : if she goes away I may never see her again, 
women are capricious ; but the Married Women’s Pro- 
perty Act plays the deuce with a fellow though. PU 
get her to make a settlement on me.” 

“ And if,” said Mrs. Netley with a sigh, “ we should 
never meet again — ^you, dear Lord Pompey, will think 
of me — sometimes ? ” 

“I shall think of you for ever. You are awfully 
good, you know.” 

“ How you flatter me.” 

“Yes, I always flatter women; gad they like it; 
deuce take them, if they don’t. But must you really 
go?” 

“ It is best I should.” 

“ Then,” he said, “ I’ll go with you.” 

Mrs. Net ley’s heart sank; she was not quite certain 
of his meaning. 


154 


A MODERN M^iGlCIAN. 


“Lord Pompey,” she replied gravely, “that cannot 
be. . What would the world say ? ” 

. “ I mean, don’t you know, go with you as your 
husband.” 

He took her hand and glued his lips to it for a 
second. A sense of triumph suddenly filled Mrs. 
Ketley’s heart; a broad smile of satisfaction- beamed 
across her massive face, the hour long hoped for had 
come at last. Her loathsome association with pork in 
the past would be merged for ever and forgotten in her 
marriage with a member of a ducal house. Oh, day of 
tiirdy approach ! Oh, hour of perfect satisfaction ! 
That for which she had struggled long and striven 
greatly was at hand, and joy rose in her breast as a sun 
o'er the land, for the dawn of her life had awakened 
and the world was glad. 

“ Then,” she said softly, “ you really love me so 
much ? ” 

< “ More, far more,” he replied, coming closer to her 
and putting his arm around her ample waist. 

- “Ah,” she exclaimed, drawing nearer to him, “I 
cannot resist you.” 

“ No,” he answered, “ they never could. They say,” 
he added in a minor tone, “ she has a deuced lot of 

money ; ” then aloud, “ You have plenty of -no, 

that’s not what I mean ; deuced bad memory — oh yes 
— I was about to say I was fond of you — very — ^and all 
that sort of thing.” 

“You have long since gained my heart; believe me 
I am wholly yours.” 

“ Yes, so you are,” he replied, supporting her head 
on his padded breast. 

“His manners are so distinguished,” she reflected; 
“ no vulgar demonstration, perfect self-possession, 
natural elegance.” 

“ We will go abroad,” he said, “after our marriage.” 


1 


TRIUMPH AND TEMPTATION. I5i 

** You can name our wedding day.” 

“ Egad, let it be to-morrow if you like.” 

“ No, no,” she said impressively ; “ no indecent haste. 
There will be settlements to make” — Lord Pompey 

smiled — “ and you will present me to your family ” 

Lord Pompey frowned. 

Yes, yes,” he replied, in tones that struck his 
hearer as being without gladness. 

“And now,” said Mrs. Netley, “ let us seek my niece 
that we may communicate the news at once.” 

When JMrs. Amerton and Colonel Tarbert had passed 
into the smaller drawing-room some sense of reserve 
and distrust of her strength helped to render her 
nervous and ill at ease. For the influence which this 
man’s presence had of old exercised over her returned 
in f nil force ; now she had pledged her faith to another 
its existence became more harmful than before, and 
fraught with danger she shrank from contemplating. 

In quiet hgurs the question had risen in her mind 
whether after all she had been wise in refusing to 
accept Colonel Tarbert as her husband. Philip was a 
dreamer amongst men, a man of lofty ideals and keen 
sensibilities, to whose mental height it gradually broke* 
upon her she could never rise. With Colonel Tarbert 
she was already on a common plane. There was that 
in his nature which appealed to hers but made her not 
a better w^oman. 

Awaking to the knowledge she was Philip Amerton’s 
wife, she had striven to put such thoughts from her ; 
yet stealthily as an enemy upon his unguarded victim, 
they had returned again and again, and would not be 
kept at bay. Colonel Tarbert, who had come to occupy 
much of her mental life, was constantly in her presence. 
Philip seldom accompanied her when she visited, yet 
4 believing it pleased her, was anxious she should main- 
tain acquaintance with the world of Kensington at 


156 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


large. With most of her friends Colonel Tarbert was 
likewise intimate, and therefore continually met her 
at their homes. And in some way, though she was 
unaware of the fact, it had come to be recognized that 
when he appeared all other friends of Mrs. Amerton 
gave him place, and left him to the enjoyment of un^ 
disturbed conversation with her. Though she looked 
forward to these meetings with pleasure, she had never 
sought to bring them about, and therefore shrank from 
considering them disloyalty to her husband. 

Colonel Tarbert’s influence stole over her so gradu- 
ally that she remained ignorant of its progress, and 
would only wake to its existence to discover its strength. 
For in no way had he sought to disturb the serenity of 
their intercourse by forcing it to deeper and more 
dangerous feelings. Calculating even in his passions, 
he had resolved to gain her love, for its own sake, and 
at the same time avenge himself upon his rival. It 
had given him a fiendish delight to find the man whom 
he sought to wrong unconsciously aiding him in his 
malicious efforts. Closely observing this woman whom 
he loved as well as it was possible for one of his nature 
to love, he became aware Amerton’s afiection for her 
had abated, and though this deprived Tarbert of one 
sting, enough would be left in the outrage he meditated 
against Amerton’s honour. Philip and he had seldom 
encountered since the former had returned to England, 
but when they did the husband’s intuition made him 
shrink from the man who met him with fair words and 
kindly smiles. 

Had Miriam foreseen she would have been forced by 
circumstances to an uninterrupted conversation with 
Colonel Tarbert, she would have avoided the occasion. 
Nuw she could not escape she sought to overcome the 
nervousness and dread of she knew not what that seized ^ 
possession of her. 


TKlUxMPH AND TEMPTATION. 


157 


“It IS such a long time since we met,” said the 
colonel, “ I began to wonder when I should see you 
again.” 

“Long time,” she replied. “Why, it’s only four 
days.” 

“ But four days are four ages to me.” 

She felt his eyes were fixed upon her, and she looked 
straight ahead not venturing to meet his gaze. 

“ Are you not going abroad this winter ? ” she asked 
somewhat abruptly, hoping yet fearing she might 
receive an affirmative answer to her inquiry. 

“ I don’t know ; ” he said, “ it depends on circum- 
stances.” A sneer spread itself across his face. “ You 
see,” he continued, “ my brother who has been long an 
invalid, is very bad just now, and it might be wiser 
for me to stay.” 

“ You would,” she said, scarce heeding her words, 
but anxious they should divert him from the channel 
into which she felt his thoughts had turned — “you 
would feel sorry if anything happened to him.” 

. “ Sorry to come into a title and an unencumbered 
estate ; ” he replied laughingly. “ Oh, very, I assure 
you.” Then seeing his merriment jarred upon her he 
added, “ Of course I should regret poor Kerry, but 
then he has never enioyed life — at least after my 
fashion.” 

“ But he may have after his own.” 

“ Deuced slow I should think ; the best of his days 
have been spent amongst dry and dusty books, a heart- 
less, bloodless company at best. Grive me life in the 
full current of enjoyment, even if it lasts but a year; 
wine that enriches the blood, adventures that quicken 
the heart, women whose smiles are as sunshine to 
existence.” 

You forget yourself,” she said, striving to seem 
severe. 


158 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ No, no, but I remember you.” 

“ Colonel Tarbert,” she replied, her heart beating 
rapidly. 

“ Nay, don’t be angry with me. Do you remember,” 
he continued, “ that only eighteen months ago I asked 
you to marry me ? Since then I have felt miserable, 
thinkin^ of you as the wife of another man, for I have 
never ce sed to love you.” 

His words fell on her ears with a sense of gladness 
for which her heart smote her. “ You must not say 
that,” she said almost in a whisper. 

“Why not?” 

“Because we cannot undo the past, even if we 
would.” 

“That is sheer nonsense. Must you be tied for 
ever to the w rd you uttered in mistake ? Must your 
whole life be ruined because of a promise given in 
error ? ” 

“ No, no,” s e cried, scarce knowing what to answer 
in the confusi n of her thoughts, “ not given in error.” 

“But I say it was,” he said, growing bolder from 
seeing her deliberate. “You didn’t know then the 
man you accepted as your husband would become a 
fanatic — little better than a lunatic — the dupe of an 
Eastern juggler.” 

“ This is no true,” she replied, feeling the while his 
words echoed her thoughts. 

“ It is true, and you know it well ; all the world 
talks of and laughs at him as a madman.” 

“ How dar j you say this to me ? ” she answered, still 
struggling with herself. 

But all effort to hide the inward strife besetting her 
was vain; seeing which, a gleam of triumph shone 
baleful ly in her companion’s eyes, an evil smil# 
deepened the lines round his mouth. His opportunity 
had come, and he seized it readily. 


TRIUMPU AND TEMPTATION. 'loO 

“ Now listen to me,” lie said in quiet tones. What 
I am going to say may be hard for you to hear, but 
may help you to happiness eventually. You are only 
in Amerton’s way ; he has become an ascetic^ and you 
are but a millstone round his neck. If it weren’t for 
you he would quit London, go to India, become an 
adept or some other kind of lunatic, and be happy after 
his own fashion; but weighted with you, he can do 
nothing.” 

She was powerless to reply ; feeling what the tempter 
said was true, she did not dare contradict him. 

“Leave him,” said the colonel, bending down his 
head until his face almost touched hers — “ leave him 
iud come with me. You know I have always loved 
vou, and I feel sure you care for me. Let us go 
abroad, and when your husband has obtained a divorce 
I swear I shall make you my wife.” 

She was silent. The struggle within was great ; all 
that was good and bad in her nature waged a warfare, 
in which one would be slain for ever, and meanwhile 
she stood by as a trembling spectator, conscious how 
much depended on the victor. 

“Won’t you come with me?” he whispered, and 
then more determinedly continued, “ By heavens, you 
shall. Why waste your life with this shadow of a man ? 
For your own sake, for mine, aye for his, if you still 
care for him, come with me. In some quiet corner of 
Europe we will forget the past, and you will begin 
existence afresh with me. You shall be the happiest 
woman living : only tell me you will come.” 

He flung all the strength of his desires into his 
words, but yet she wavered and made no reply. He 
smothered a curse rising to his lips and cried out, 
“You are cold as a statue ; have you no heart ? ” 

“lam wicked,” she replied in a low voice, “ to let 
you say such words to me, and yet ” 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


He waited anxiously, but she did not continue. 

“ Would it not be more wicked to blight your whole 
life by refusing this certain happiness ? Only say you 
will come.” 

‘‘ Not now, not now,” she gasped. “ Your words 
have bewildered me ; my brain is on fire, and I know 
not what I say.” 

“ You shall answer me now or never,” he replied, 
seeing her weakness was his opportunity. “ Say yes, 
and I am your slave for life ; say no, and you shall 
never see me again.” 

‘‘Ah,” she said, “you are cruel; you torture me, 
and yet you have no mercy.” 

“ Love is ever cruel. Only answer me and your 
torture ends. Shall I be yours, or do we indeed part ? ” 

Before she had time to reply Mrs. Netley’s voice was 
heard in the next room. 

“ Answer me at once, yes or no,” the tempter said 
imperatively. 

“No,” she said falteringly; then added, “Thank 
God, I’m saved.” 

Colonel Tarbert muttered curses, but before he had 
time to speak, Mrs. Netley appeared. 

“ My dear,” she said, in her own joy not heeding her 
niece’s confusion, “ you and Colonel Tarbert also must 
hear the news. Dear Lord Pompey has at length 
persuaded me to become his wife,” 


CHAPTER Xm. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE, 

The surprise which Ulic Tarbert and Gal Alex felt at 
the sudden mention of Amos Berkeley’s name was 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


great. Neither spoke for a while ; but in their inter- 
changed glances she read the pity he expressed for her, 
he the trustfulness she felt in him. 

‘‘ What am I to do ? ” she asked. 

You must see him,” he replied. 

She shrank back as if the suggestion was not only 
unwelcome but unexpected. 

It is best,” Ulic continued, “ to discover what steps 
he means to take, and see how he will behave, that you 
may gauge his intentions towards you. Dismiss him 
and you are left in suspense regarding his movements, 
and open to be molested by him at the first opportunity.” 

“ I had not thought of that.” 

“ Before he enters I shall step out of the room on to 
the lawn here ; it may be as well I should know him, 
and you may feel greater security in the assurance that 
I am at hand.” 

‘‘ You are indeed a valuable friend,” she answered ; 

it will give me courage and strength to feel you are 
near.” 

“ Let me advise you. From what I can learn of this 
man he is a coward and therefore a bully. Don’t let 
him see you fear him ; refuse his demands if they are 
extortionate, for I have no doubt he comes for money; 
don’t offer to buy his silence or he will haunt you ; but 
promise him a small annuity on condition that he 
troubles you no more. Now summon the servant, say 
you have changed your mind and will see him and 
he touched the bell. 

When the maid appeared, Gral Alex asked, “ Did you 
say I had a visitor?” 

“No ma’am, I said you were busy.” 

“ Tell the bearer of the note I can spare him five 
minutes, and show him in here.” 

The interval between the servant’s exit and the 
arrival of this unwelcome visitor seemed an age of pain, 


\d- A MODERN MAGIOUN. 

broken by one interval of hope when Ulic Tarbert, 
before leaving the room, had taken her hand for a 
second and whispered one word, ‘‘ courage,” in her ear. 
At last the door opened ; she neither turned nor looked, 
but kept her eyes steadily fixed on some papers before 
her. At length she suddenly raised them and found 
herself alone with her husband. He was standing near 
the closed door carefully examining the room. 

Any expectations she had formed by no means 
prepared her for the change time had wrought in him. 
The moral degradation which convict life entails was 
vividly marked on him. His face had coarsened in 
every feature, a hard defiant look shone in his eyes, 
his slouching gait bespoke enforced humiliations. 
Looking at him she wondered if this could be the man 
she had once loved with all the force and tenderness of 
first affection. The horror and hate she had experi- 
enced during the last months of her life with him 
returned with increased force. 

Something stronger than years of absence, more 
potent than painful circumstances, separated them now 
as a gulf neither might cross again. The subtle evil 
his disposition had developed with passing years could 
never be bound by a common link with the forces of 
her character which solitude and thought had 
strengthened and purified. Sundered by the differ- 
ences of their moral natures, they stood apart as 
children of diverse races. 

Throwing himself with an affectation of ease he 
entirely lacked into the chair recently occupied by Ulic 
Tarbert, the Rev. Amos Berkeley, otherwise Jacob 
Grlender, said : 

So I have found you at last, Mrs. Amos Berkeley.” 

She visibly winced at sound of a name not heard 
for years ; the tone of his voice vividly recalled scenes 
of indescribable p:un. 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


168 


“And glad I am,” lie continued, glancing around, 
to find you in such easy circumstances.” 

“ Why have you come here ? ” she asked. 

“To see you, of course,” he replied, with a grin. 

“ What is it you want ? ” 

Something in her self-possessed manner warned him 
of the change time had wrought in her since they 
parted, and a sense of disappointment fell upon him. 
She might not prove the easy dupe he had expected to 
find. 

“ I want my wife.” He uttered the words slowly 
and deliberately, watching their effect upon her as a 
doctor might the process of narcotics on his patient. 

Save that the blood faded from her face, she gave no 
other indication of her feelings by word or movement. 

“ My time,” she said presently, seeing he made no 
attempt to continue, “ is much occupied. I feel satis- 
fied you have come for some purpose, state it and leave 
me.” 

Her coolness surprised and provoked him ; he set his 
massive jaws determinedly, and then* said, “You have 
asked me to state my purpose. I have come here for 
you — my wife.” 

The room swam round her ; the fear haunting her 
quiet years was suddenly realized ; the avalanche which 
had threatened her life had fallen. She was not, how- 
ever, prepared to endure this fate, and had long since 
determined on resistance should it assail her. There- 
fore, recovering herself, she said, quietly and resolutely : 

“ Were we to live a century, you and I could never 
be more to each other than strangers.” 

“ The law shall enforce you to live with me.” 

“ Never. I should welcome the social disgrace which 
the public knowledge that I am your wife would entail, 
rather than live with you under what change of name 
you please to assume.” 


164 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


She heard him curse her, but paid no attention to 
his words. ' 

‘‘ Listen,” she continued ; “ you come here labouring 
under the impression I am the cowed, dejected woman 
from whom you parted. I was then little more than a 
child. Friendless, helpless, ignorant of the world, the 
sorrow you cruelly thrust upon me crushed my spirit ; 
but I have changed since then. Years have brought 
experience. You who of all others were bound to pro- 
tect me, weighted my youth with misery, betrayed my 
trust, mocked my auction, gave me a coward’s blow. 
All this I bore submissively then ; but that period of 
my life being passed, new strength was given me, and 
rather than live under one roof with you, I would 
welcome death itself.” 

The fervour of her words brought conviction of their 
truth to his mind. He had made a mistake in believ- 
ing the woman who had been his former victim would 
become his present dupe. The. proposal of claiming 
her as his wife had been made without intention of 
carrying it into execution, but solely from a desire to 
alarm and thereby obtain from her certain demands he 
had come to make. His object having failed, he pro- 
ceeded to make a fresh move. 

“ Well,” he said, striving to assume an air of ease, 
“ if we don’t live together, we can at least share our 
property with each other.” 

She looked at him with quiet scorn. ‘‘ You mean 
that I should share my money with you ? ” 

If you choose to put it in that way — yes.” 

“ Then you are again mistaken.” 

** What’s yours is mine in the eye of the law, and, by 
heavens, I’ll have it.” 

“You forget,” she said, “the Married Women’s 
Pro])erty Act.” 

He had not forgotten it, but trusted her ignorance 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


165 


of its existence would befriend him. He clenched his 
teeth and looked at her. wdth vengeful eyes. 

“ Look here,” be said doggedly, “ let us have no 
more beating about the bush. You are rich, I need 
money. Give me five hundred pounds. Keep your 
name and your secret, but let me have the cash.” 

The expression of his face and tone of his voice 
brought back recollections of days and nights of fear 
and misery. She nerved herself to resist him. 

“ You shall not have any money from me,” she said. 

He stretched across the desk and whispered : 

“ Take care, take care, or you may drive me to that 
which will ruin you.” 

“ No act of yours,” she replied, “ can injure me in 
the world’s sight, so long as I keep apart from you.” 

“You force me to speak in plainer terms. What’s 
yours is mine, and if I cannot have it by fair means I 
will have it by foul.” 

“ Do you mean,” she asked, some idea of his threat 
flashing on her mind, “ you will have recourse to for- 
gery r 

“I may be tempted to write your name upon a 
cheque. Bring me to justice, and the world shall learn 
it is a wife who prosecutes her husband ; it will be a 
nice story for all your fine friends.” 

“ If you have such intentions,” she replied, “ I give 
you fair warning to beware of your danger. From this 
date my bankers shall be advised to carefully examine 
the signatures of my cheques. If a forgery is dis- 
covered, as I am a living woman, the law shall deal 
with you as with a common criminal, I am not going 
to buy your silence or submit to my ruin.” 

He left his chair and came close to her side, his 
hands clenched, his face distorted by rage ; but she 
neither shrank from him nor cried for help, though 
Tarbert’s name was on her lips. Her heart beat rapidly 


1G6 


A MODKRN MAGICIAN. 


and her nerves (juivered from excitement, yet she strove 
to be brave, knowing much depended on her preserving 
the appearance of courage. She lifted her eyes to his, 
and he retreated before her gaze, muttering to himself. 

This woman whom he had formerly regarded as the 
slave of his wishes, and expected to find fearful of his 
influence and pliant to his desires, defied him. For 
some minutes he stood leaning against a bookshelf, not 
knowing what move he should next make, and unwilling 
to own himself defeated. 

Her fear of him in no way abated, his presence was 
no less irksome than at his first entrance, and she felt 
the interview must end quickly or strength and courage 
would desert her. She strove, however, to maintain 
their semblance to the last, and summoning all her 
fortitude, began : 

“ You see I reject your proposals and defy your 
threats ; but I now of my own free will make a propo- 
sition, which if you are wise you will accept.” 

He nodded his head by way of intimating his attention. 

‘‘ Most men with experiences such as yours,” she said, 
“ would be glad to lead a new life if opportunities were 
offered them. I shall place them in your way. My 
solicitor will pay you tw^o hundred a year, provided I 
never see or hear from you again. If ever you come to 
my house, write to or molest me, from that day your 
pension shall be suspended. This sum will allow you to 
live honestly, take the chance it affords you, and now go.” 

The expression of his eyes as he looked at her sent a 
shudder through her frame. 

“ Come,” he said, “ your bite is worse than your bark. 
Make it double the sum and I take you at your word. 
It isn’t every day,” headded with a chuckle, a woman 
can secure her liberty for four hundred a year; few 
husbands would prove so reasonable as I, but then I’m 
not one of the jealous sort, you see, and am willing ” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


m 


“ Ti e sum I have named,” she interrupted, refusing 
to hear more, “ will place you above temptation. 1 shall 
not increase it by even a pound. Let me know your 
decision at once ; I shall not repeat my offer.” 

‘‘ Well,” he answered, “ two hundred a year is not to 
be despised.” 

“ You will remember the conditions.” 

“ Though' they may be hard for an affectionate 
husband to maintain, I’ll' think of them.” 

“ I suppose you have no desire to^ be known as the 
Kev. Amos Berkeley ? ” 

Right you are,” he replied with an air of audacity. 
“ Set me down as Jacob Grlender ! ” 

She wrote the name ; then taking an envelope, gave 
him the address of her solicitors. He twirled the paper 
in his fingers before thrusting it into his pocket. 

“ Does payment date from to-day ? ” he asked. 

“ Y es,” she replied briefly. . 

“ Sorry I didn’t find you sooner, I’d have called like 
a dutiful husband.” 

She made no reply. 

His business had come to an end, but he lingered. 

She has been too clever for me,” he thought, “ but if 
ever the chance comes I shall make her pay heavily for 
this bargain.” 

He looked round the handsomely appointed room and 
then at her, and slouchingly walked from her presence. 
With strained ears she listened to his footsteps in the 
passage, and heard the street door bang behind him. 

“ Thank God it is over,” she cried, leaning back in 
her chair. Her overstrained senses gave way ; the whole 
room swam round her, but in the last efforts for mastery 
made by her fleeting consciousness, she recognized as in 
a dream Ulic Tarbert’s anxious face bending over her. 
Then all was darkness and repose. 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


CHAPTEK XIV. 

A DARK DAY. 

Early in September Mrs. Henry Netley and Lord 
Pompey Kokeway were made man and wife. The 
marriage had been celebrated with all the pomp and 
state, glitter and show dear to Mrs. Netley’s heart. No 
hint that the church service, celebrated by a learned 
prelate, assisted by doctors of high degree, canons of 
dignified mien, and a surpliced choir, merely ratified a 
commonplace bargain such as public markets witness 
daily, escaped the polite lips or was betrayed in the 
gracious glances of Lady Pompey’s guests. 

At the wedding breakfast the bride of fifty summers 
sat shivering in filmy garments ; beside her the sem- 
blance of a man, wigged, rouged, padded, and stayed, 
yet ghastly, as if Death himself, tricked out in finery, 
had taken his place at the board to mock the marriage 
feast. 

The Duke of Bloomsbury, who, taking Mrs. Netley’s 
wealth into consideration, had given his consent to the 
alliance, was present, and continually mopped his red- 
rimmed eyes with a handkerchief, not because of their 
tears, but of their tenderness. The duchess likewise 
attended, and breakfasting over heartily, for a subse- 
quent week visited the irritability of indigestion equally 
on her aged poodle and her illustrious husband. 

His grace made a feeble speech which no one under- 
stood, during which, without ceasing to masticate, his 
consort grumbled audibly, probably by way of expressing 
her dissent to his mild remarks, as was her invariable 
custom. When later on the saintly bishop, with florid 
face and ample girth, made flattering references to the 
noble and happy pair united that morning in the holy 


A DARK DAY. 


169 


bonds of matrimony, Lord Pompey tittered, and in a 
loud tone shrewdly remarked to himself, “ Gad, he’ll 
expect a handsome fee ; deuce take him if he don’t,” to 
the evident discomfort of his lordship and the amusement 
of his hearers. 

Throughout the feast Lady Pompey’s heart beat high 
with exalted satisfaction and gratified pride. She had 
secured the distinction ardently sought ; the duke had 
graciously given her the tips of his trembling fingers to 
shake, and congratulated her on the alliance with his 
brother ; whilst the duchess had condescended to inquire 
the nationality of her cook who served the repast. Had 
the Italian chef been a slave. Lady Pompey would have 
given him to her grace on the spot, but being a free 
man and a great artist, he expected a liberal salary, and 
the duchess, as the world knew, was penurious. 

Presently the happy bride and bridegroom drove away 
to one of the duke’s country residences, where they were 
to spend their honeymoon, whilst congratulations 
savouring of that delightful exhilaration begotten by 
champagne rang in their ears. Then the merry guests 
who had taken part in this interesting farce went their 
divers ways, gratified that their dear friends and kind 
hosts. Lord and Lady Pompey Poke way, had by this 
marriage afforded them subject for laughter and ridi- 
cule which must at least last nine days. 

From the ducal residence Lord and Lady Pompey 
proceeded to the continent, where they resolved to 
spend the winter and early spring. 

Meanwhile the last months of the year had for Philip 
Amerton worn away with a sense of undefined fear and 
sombre uneasiness he could neither fathom nor dissipate. 
So far as he might judge by outward signs, no storm 
threatened his peace ; yet a depression, vague, subtle, 
and un traceable, gradually crept over his mind and 
weighted his life. There had been times in the past 


170 


A MODERN xMAGIClAN. 


when he had known df^jection, but reaction had duly 
followed. Now, however, this nameless care deepened 
with every hour. He felt as one travelling a lone and 
unknown path through profound daikuess, fearful of 
some impending peril and conscious of utter helpless- 
ness. 

Weeks passed, but no rift appeared in the cloud ; 
one heavy day followed another, and merged into fate- 
ful blackness, as evening into night. From the depths 
of his soul he cried aloud, praying he might be freed 
from this weird, horrible, and dream-like spell, but his 
words were lost in chaos and gained no response. Now, 
indeed, did he seem as one apart from his fellow-men ; 
as little bound to the interests they shared, as slightly 
influenced by motives they obeyed, as if he had already 
passed the portals of death and walked a bloodless 
phantom in their midst. The old sense of weary lone- 
liness and unbridged isolation deepened ; the link 
which should have bound him to humanity was mis- 
sing ; he could never take hands with his kind and feel 
as they. « 

Perfect indifference to all things paralyzed his 
feelings ; his heart was frozen as if grasped by death, 
and its chillness spread through his veins. The while, 
as light reflected through colour, his work assumed the 
tints of his mind, and the chapters he at this time 
wrote were marked by a gloom and horror afterwards 
long remembered. And, as in Ms organization matter 
was subject to mind, his health gradually gave way. 
His wife had noted the change, but seemed powerless 
to hinder its effects. Now, indeed, more than ever did 
they seem estranged. He shrank within himself, and 
his personality seemed numbed by the depression over- 
hanging him. 

Awakened to a sense of danger by the scene through 
which she had passed with Colonel Tarbert, and grateful 


A DAEK DAY. 


171^ 


for her escape from dire tempation, Miriam had striven 
hardly to be a faithful wife, and in a thousand ways 
had pleaded for her husband’s love. But though hi? 
words were ever gentle, some barrier she felt powerless 
to overthrow and unable to withstand effectually 
parted them. And her natural affections being beaten 
back upon her heart, as waves dashing against rocks are 
flung into the sea, she sorrowfully concluded Philip 
loved her no more, and it was true indeed she had 
become a burden to his life. 

Then her thoughts turned to the man who had ever 
exercised an influence over one part of her nature, and 
that not the highest, and her peril became great. The 
gloom that had gradually and perceptibly fallen upon 
her husband had likewise its influence upon her. 
Failing as utterly to divert its descent as if she strove 
to waft darkness from the face of the earth, she slowly 
succumbed to its influence. 

Yet the depression affected both in divers ways. To 
him its cause was unknown. Occasionally he regarded 
it as the shadow of an approaching ordeal in the path 
he had elected to tread, but no certainty of this was 
manifest to him, Benoni being at this time absent from 
England. Miriam conceived his gloom the outcome of 
sorrow and weariness through having taken her as his 
wife. She had gleaned sufficient knowledge regarding 
the mystic life to become aware marriage was regarded 
as a hindrance to adeptship, and she no longer doubted 
this was the existence lier husband wished to embracer 
All that was highest and best in her nature still clung, 
to him, but with Colonel Tarbert beside her the lower 
elements of her character triumphed, and sore danger 
threatened her. Therefore was she downcast. 

And so this period of their lives was spent by both 
in mental darkness, and weariness of sombre days, and 
dread of what the future yet might hold. 


172 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Philip remembered that formerly when depression 
fell upon him, he had taken exercise by way of dis- 
pelling its effects. The weather being wet and dreary, 
had not recently permitted him to try this experiment, 
but one morning in December, the sun being bright 
and the atmosphere clear, he resolved to start for a long 
walk. At breakfast he announced his intention of 
going to Wimbledon. 

“ I shall tramp to Old Wandsworth and have lunch 
at the Spread Eagle,” he said, “ and afterwards journey 
to Wimbledon Common, and remain there until 
sunset.” 

Miriam drew a short quick breath, and put her hand 
to her side, as if his words contained tidings of 
momentous importance. 

“ Must you go to-day ? ” she asked. ^ 

He looked at her across the table, with that weary 
expression she knew so well resting in his eyes. 

“ No,” he answered, “ not if you have made any 
plans requiring me to remain. Have you asked any 
one to lunch ? ” 

“ No,” she replied. 

“ Then I shall go, for the morning is bright and the 
day will be favourable for a long walk.” 

There was no thought of her in his arrangements, 
she considered ; in small things as in great, she had no 
place in his life. 

“What do you intend doing to-day?” he asked 
presently. 

“ I shall call on Gal Alex in the afternoon,” she said, 
looking down. “ It is her day. She has asked me to 
dine with her quietly afterwards, but I have refused.” 

“ It had been better if you accepted her invitation, 
because it will be uncertain when I get back. You 
need not stand on ceremony with so old a friend ; stay 
to dinner with her, and on my return from Wimbledon 


A DAEK DAY. 


17 ? 


I shall dine at the Garrick. You will not feel lonely 
whilst I am away ? ” 

‘‘No,” she answered, in a low voice, bending over 
her cup. 

“ I fear you sometimes are, even when I am at home.** 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ But you know men must work.” 

“ Yes, and women must weep.” 

He looked at her quickly and keenly, striving to dis- 
cover if she meant what she said. She met his glance 
with flushed cheeks and a faint smile. 

“ Bnt you don’t weep ? ” he said, in that tone which 
was wont to thrill her in olden days. 

“No,” she replied, shaking her head; “I only 
quoted, like a parrot.” 

He looked out of the opposite window thinking of 
her words and the tone in which they were uttered, 
wondering if she merely spoke at random or really felt 
the force of her remark. The question abided with and 
puzzled him all day. 

He continued absorbed during the remainder of the 
meal ; and she likewise maintained silence, but watched 
him narrowly. And ever and anon her face flushed and 
paled, and she became restless from great nervousness. 
Occasionally it seemed as if she struggled to speak ; 
anon she was lost in thought, whilst her head rested 
on her hand ; and evidently she pictured some scene, 
for suddenly, with a low cry that surprised herself, she 
cried out : 

“ Philip I ” 

He started and said irritably, “ What is the 
matter ?” 

“Nothing,” she replied, attempting to laugh; “I 
think I must have been dreaming. And now I forget 
what I was about to say,” she added hurriedly. “ Oh, 
this is it ; what time shall you be back ? ” 


174 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ About six or seven, I suppose,” he answered, rising 
from the table. 

She watched his movements until he left the room. 
When he had put on his boots and got his hat and 
stick he came back, and glancing at her where she 
still sat before her un tasted breakfast, said carelessly : 

“Now I’m off; good morning.” 

“Philip,” she said, rising up and holding out her 
hand. 

He crossed the room and kissed her forehead. 

She listened to his footsteps in the hall, and then 
descending the stone steps leading to the road, and 
suddenly hurried to the window. He caught sight of 
her and lightly waved his hai^d. 

And she remembered the look in his eyes many 
days. 

The brightness of the sun and keenness of the 
morning air at first had little effect in rousing his 
spirits from languor. For once he failed to reflect 
nature’s mood, and the contrast of external light and 
vigour made him more conscious of his internal dark- 
ness and depression. By the time he had lunched at 
Old Wandsworth and reached the Common it was two 
o’clock. 

The wide open plain, with its far-stretching view 
bounded by the Surrey hills, brought him a sense of 
space and freedom that produced speedy relief. Had 
he been painted by fifty leagues from London he could 
not be more solitary. 

Here he felt man might pour out the secrets and 
oppressions of his heart to his Creator, unseen, unheard, 
save by the whole court of Heaven. Some sense of 
peace, as if escape from his kind were well, filled his 
mind. Hours and seasons there are in most men’s 
lives when, humanity becoming burdensome, they 
would fain escape its reach ; when companionship 


A DARK DAY. 


175 


growing irksome, solitude becomes a necessity. A 
longing rises within to step from the crowd, and, 
seeking loneliness, reverently stand face to face with 
nature. At such times the worthlessness and barren- 
ness of e istence ; the strange pathos, futile joys, petty 
ambitions, tawdry triumphs, bitter griefs, sordid cares, 
and many errors of daily life; the emptiness of all 
things lying beneath gilded surfaces; the infinite 
possibilities of man’s soul; the wonderment of what 
has been and what may be ; vague speculations as to 
cause and effect; vain yearnings for clearer sight 
and fuller knowledge; dim consciousness of ligh^ 
behind the veil, flash upon the mind, leaving the 
thinker a man of sadder mind and humbler mien. 
The influence of such considerations of old sent hermits 
into deserts, nay, yet fills monasteries with weary- 
hearted men. 

Such ideas flitting through his mind soothed 
Amerton by relieving him from his immediate sense of 
depression and placing him in the wider arena of con- 
siderations that had perplexed and troubled thoughtful 
men of every generation. Then by degrees his natny«l 
perception of all things beautiful awoke. The wide 
undulating common, with its patches of heather and 
grass, islands of gorse and clumps of trees, became the 
background of a series of living pictures that passed 
before him as he rested on a wooden bench. 

Away in the distance a boy with a colley dog slowly 
rose on the horizon, at first as mere specks against the 
blue, gradually gaining due proportions as they drew 
near. The boy’s cheeks glowed with exercise, his eyes 
shone with health, the fresh wind rushed through his 
hair. Between him and the dog friendliest relations 
existed ; the one spoke, the other obeyed ; both ran and 
gambolled in joyous' fellowship, and passed out of 
Amerton’s sight. Next came in view a young horse- 


17G 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


woman, whose ronnded, graceful figure was well defined 
against the strong light. Her horse reared capriciously, 
as if he would enjoy sport with his rider, who, bending 
over him, patted his neck and chided him. And she, 
galloping into distance, gave place to a solitary male 
iigure in flannels, deep chested and broad shouldered 
as H ^rcules, light-footed and swift sped as Hermes, 
who rushed across the common scattering pieces of 
paper as he fled ; to be presently pursued by a cloud 
of flying followers in coloured shirts, wordless, fleet- 
footed, strong-limbed, athletic, keeping well abreast, 
^nd crossing the plain noiselessly as a flock of birds 
winging their way through air. Beyond, red-coated 
hurlers moved to and fro, making bright patches on 
the green. Hearing volunteers practise rifle shooting, 
Philip went forward to watch them ; and then strode 
further onwards, till soon fell the evening of this brief 
day. 

Above the hazy blue of the Surrey hills, the sky was 
flushed with scarlet light, that gradually deepening to 
crimson slowly faded to gold. Then came broad lines 
tender green, changing to grey, and presently 
merging into shadow. Amerton turned to retrace his 
steps, but paused when he had reached some distance, 
and looked back. 

Where the sun had set, great perpendicular beams 
of light shot into the darkening sky. Seen from this 
desolate common, with night gathering round him, 
they seemed to Philip as vengeful fingers of a giant 
hand stretched out of heaven. The thought distressed 
and disturbed him, and as he turned to pursue his 
homeward course, the now deserted common bore a sad, 
forlorn aspect. The patches of heath, gorse, and grass 
had turned to blackness, seeming to stain the whole- 
some earth, like plague-spots on the world. The bark 
of a dog in the distance sounded menacing to his ears, 


A DARK DAY. 


177 


and the wind sighing through the bare branches of a 
blighted tree, moaned with the tones of a human 
voice. 

Ke had lingered too long, and now the sky was 
covered by unbroken darkness. An uncanny feeling 
seized possession of him, as if the bleak common were 
peopled with forms he could not behold; and more 
than once he glanced behind in part belief some weird 
and fleshless procession of mocking fiends followed his 
path. As he strode rapidly forward the spirit of night 
walked with him. The black air sweeping past 
whispered words of strange import in his ears. A 
clump of shrubs dimly perceived at some distance 
appeared like distorted crouching figures of half human 
creation, that on his approach changed to twisted 
boughs and leafless brambles. Fears having no part 
in physical dread, assailed him. The uneven surface 
of the common over which he trod seemed as the 
mounds of new-made graves; and the fluttering 
upwards of birds his footsteps disturbed, were to his 
fancy as a flight of souls on whose sacred rest he had 
intruded. Once a dead leaf helplessly whirled in air 
struck his cheek ; he felt as if the withered finger of a 
skeleton hand thrust forward through darkness had 
touched him. 

He had now lost his way, but believed if he pushed 
onward in a straight line he must gain the high road. 
He therefore hiistened his steps, but the long twisted 
grass impeded him ; briars stretched forward and clung 
to his arms ; the sad babbling of a little brook, crying 
because of its loneliness, implored him to stay. No 
sound of human life greet^ his ears. The space 
which before had been wide, w^as now boundless, all 
traces of circumference being lost in universal black- 
ness. And above other terrors of which these things 
Beemed but a part, was an apprehension of unknown 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


i7a 

calamity. It was a blessed relief when, after ^eat 
weariness, be found himself on the high road, within 
hail of humanity. 

He was far too nervous and exhausted to seek his 
cluT) and endure the conversation of acquaintances he 
might meet, and therefore turned homewards. The 
servant who opened the door looked at him curiously, 
but he passed in without heeding her. On inquiring 
if his wife had returned, he was told she had not; he 
then ordered dinner, believing she was dining with 
Gal Alex. 

Having finished his solitary meal, he entered the 
study; the lamp was already lighted; taking up a 
book he sat down at his desk. As he did he saw a 
letter lying there, bearing his name in his wife's writ- 
ing. Supposing she wished him to call for her at Gal 
Alex’s, or leave some other message, he opened the 
envelope and proceeded to scan its inclosure, but he 
had not read the first sentence when he laid it down 
again, brushed his hand across his eyes as if believing 
they deceived him, and then continued. 

“ Philip,” the letter began, I am going to inflict on 
you what may at first sight seem a wong, but time will 
show it is best for both of us. It has been clear to me 
for many months you made a mistake in marrying me, 
that I have become a weight on your life, a hindrance 
to your purposes. I too have committed an error in 
wedding you. I am wholly incapable of making you 
happy, and I have at times been terribly miserable. 
Why should we endure for ever a bond that has become 
irksome to both. A little courage and it is broken 
beyond repair. I take the step which parts us, for I 
am about to seek happiness with one who wished to 
make me his wife before I agreed to become yours. 
The law will right you, and then you will be free. 
We may never meet again. If this act of mine gives 


A DARK DAY. 


179 


you pain at first, forgive me. It is taken to further 
our future peace. — Miriam.” 

He laid down the letter, feeling stunned ; his con- 
fused senses were as yet unable to grasp the full mean- 
ing of her words. Was it possible she who of all 
women held his faith and trust, she who once won his 
heart, whom still he loved, had now cast shame and 
dishonour on him ? He crushed the note in his hand 
and flung it from him wrathfully ; if a mere effort of 
will could have achieved his desire, he would then have 
torn all memory of her from his life. 

But a few hours ago she had spoken gentle words to 
him, raised her face to receive his kiss, whilst the 
resolution to dishonour him lay in her heart. In a 
moment he had fallen from the heights of faith in 
womanhood down an abyss of bitter shame, and lay 
helplessly crushed, powerless to act or think coherently. 
She who had once made the world glad to his sight 
had wrecked his life, she whom he had chosen as his 
dearest friend had proved his bitterest foe. The dis- 
grace of her act smote him deeply ; he wished he had 
never seen her, and swore he would never look on her 
again. 

Then it flashed upon him for the first time there 
was a partner in this act more guilty than she. At 
thought of this the blood ran hot in Amerton’s veins, 
and evil thoughts swept through his mind as dark 
clouds crossing a winter sky. This man it was who 
had tempted her, stolen her from her home, and repent 
how he might the wrong he inflicted could never be 
set right. Why should such men be permitted to live 
and wreck the lives of those around them ? He vrould 
seek Colonel Tarbert and take revenge ; the world was 
too small for both, one of them must die. 

Then by a reaction of feeling he thought — no longer 
with bitterness and pain, but with sorrow and com- 


180 


A MODEEN aiAGIGIAN. 


passion — of her who was still his wife, for a question 
rose spectre-like from the confusion of his mind, and 
confronted him appallingly. Had he, her husband, 
done his duty by her ? He could not answer as his 
heart desired, and he bowed his head in reproach and 
humiliation. He had sworn to love, cherish and pro- 
tect her, but how had he kept his vow ? He had re- 
gretted his marriage, and grown weary of his wife ; 
whilst striving for what lay beyond his reach, he had 
neglected that most concerning him ; whilst gazing 
at the stars his feet had strayed into a morass. He 
had taken the love and devotion she offered him as if 
they had been merely his due, and the first weeks of 
his ardour having passed made her little return in 
kind. His promises had proved but empty words ; 
surely the whole chivalry of his nature had fallen from 
him. 

There were days, he remembered with keen reproach, 
when wholly absorl3ed in work, or lost in occult specu- 
lations, he had scarcely spoken to or heeded her. 
She had ceased to occupy any part of his life, to hold 
her proper place in his heart. He had not acted as 
her guide or counsellor, but assuming she was happy 
without troubling to ascertain if she was content, had 
taken his selfish solitary way through weeks and months, 
suffering her companionship rather than cherishing 
her love. 

If she had failed to understand his nature, sym- 
pathize with his moods, enter into his feelings, surely 
that was due to some lack in her mental organization, 
which he should have accepted as a blemish rather 
than resented as a fault. She must have known he 
had wearied of her, have felt he had repented his 
marriage. She had loved him once, of that nothing 
could dissuade him ; and remembering her words to-day 
and the light in her eyes he could not but think some 


A DAKK DAY. 


181 


traces of Iier past aflfection lingered with her still. 
Had he but known his last kiss was to her the sign of 
farewell, what misery had both been spared. 

He thought of the loneliness she must have en- 
dured, the pain his neglect caused her, the humilia- 
tion of considering herself a burden to him, the 
temptation which freedom and life with one who pro- 
fessed to love her must have offered. The fault of her 
elopement was solely his own ; he had failed in his 
duty, and punishment had overtaken him. No feeling 
of bitterness towards her now rested in his mind ; only 
compassion for her, and self-reproach. And as he sat 
there, thoughts of bygone days and memories of early 
love thronged around his desolate heart like winds that 
rush through open doors of drear deserted homes. He 
buried his head in his arms outstretched upon the 
desk, being weary with grief and torn with remorse. 

Then, as time passed, he conceived a resolution of 
seeking his wife, and never resting until he had brought 
her back to his home, which yet was hers. She had 
said the law would right him, but to his mind no man 
had power to sever the spiritual union binding thenj in 
bonds enduring through all time. The step she had 
taken could never be repaired, but he would rescue 
her from the life into which wrong and temptation had 
first led her. Her sin was insufficient to cast her from 
his home, for had he done his duty by her she had not 
erred. He never doubted she would return to him, 
and there and then resolved to devote his life to her. 
He would protect her from the sneers and cavils of the 
world, from the misery awaiting her. He would begin 
his search for her at. once. 

Suddenly he thought of Benoni : perhaps he could 
help him ; he had been absent from town some months, 
but might have returned as suddenly as he had de* 
parted. And with remembrance of Benoni came a 


182 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


fresh train of thoughts. It was whilst following the 
teachings of the mystic this misery had crept into his 
life. True, he had embraced them voluntarily, and 
had been warned his search into mysticism would 
involve him in troubles that should test his strength ; 
but he had not dreamt his sorrow could proceed from 
such a source. 

Benoni must have perceived its coming, and yet had 
given him no word of warning, had not forefended him 
from dishonour. Amerton was sick at heart ; torn by 
divers feelings, he knew not what to think. Was this 
grief but part of a fate destined to befall him from his 
entrance into life ? Was it an experience necessary to 
a mission he was bound to fulfil ? Whilst his wife was 
with him he had not valued her ; now, being gone, he 
mourned her. Was he indeed but as a,, child with a 
toy, nay, was he himself but a plaything in the hands 
of an incomprehensible fate ? 

Summoning the servant, Philip learned his wife had 
left the house at midday, taking a box with her. The 
maid had not heard any directions given to the cab- 
man; her mistress, in departing, merely said she had 
left a letter in the study. 

He scarce knew in which direction to begin his 
search. A faint hope rose in his mind that Benoni 
would in some way aid him — nay, might even still save 
him from dishonour and grief by exerting his powers 
to pre vent Miriam’s flight. If after all she was rescued 
and restored to him, how grateful he should feel. He 
w'ould take this lesson to heart, and henceforth live not 
jfor himself alone, but for her likewise. 

Busy with these thoughts, ha hurriedly left the 
house, and getting into a cab drove to Benoni’s resi- 
dence. His vivid imagination had seized hold of this 
hope for her delivery, and by the time he reached his 
destination he persuaded himself he should find his 


183 


• " A DAEK DAY. 

Yife safe in the mystic’s home. The first sight of the 
bleak and lonely house, silent and dark, dissipated his 
expectations. Jumping from his cab, he rang the 
gate bell violently, so that the peal clamoured noisily 
through the quiet night. When the last toll died 
away, unbroken silence fell upon him oppress! \e:y. 
The tall poplar trees, like giant hearse plumes, waved 
slowly and sadly within the forlorn garden : the curtain- 
less windows glared on him pitilessly. No lights 
moved within, no sound reached his ear. Unwilling 
to depart without ascertaining if Benoni had returned, 
he rang a second time, and again the bell woke many 
echoes through the dismal mansion. The waiting 
cabdriver looked critically at Amerton, and from him 
to the house, folded his arras, settled a rug round his 
knees, and resigned himself to the situation. 

For the third time Philip rang, on this occasion with 
violence begotten of impatience, and then to his un- 
speakable relief, heard some noise within. Bolts were 
slowly withdrawn, and a heavy door creaked. Amer- 
ton’s heart beat with expectancy as the sound of foot- 
steps echoed on the flagged pathway leading to the 
gate. When this was unlocked and thrown open, he 
beheld the figure of a charwoman. Holding up ti e 
lantern she carried to inspect her visitor, its light fell 
upon her wrinkled face, and was reflected in her dark 
eyes shaded by wiry brows ; bushy grey hair escaped 
from her cap ; her back was bent from age or infirmity. 
Sh<^ had evidently been roused from sleep, and her 
expression was not of the most perfect amiability. 

Silently and grimly she stared at Amerton, waiting 
for him to speak. 

“Is Benoni at home ? ” he asked in a tone tremu- 
lous from anticipated disappointment. 

“ No, he hasn’t been here these three months. 

“ When do you expect him back ? ” 


184 


A MODERN MAGIGIAH 


It’s more than I can say.” 

‘‘ Do you know where he is at present ? ” 

“No. I don’t know nothing of him,” she answered, 
lowering the lantern and making a movement by way 
of indicating her desire the interview should end. 

“ Good-night,” said Amerton, turning away sadly. 

“ Is that all ? ” replied the woman ; whereon he 
turned back and put some silver in her outstretched 
hand. 

He went back to his cab. 

“ Scotland Yard,” he said in a troubled voice to the 
driver. 

“ Something’s up,” that individual muttered to 
himself, and away they sped. 

Arriving at their destination, Amerton presented his 
card and asked to see Inspector Collins, an officer for 
whose sagacity he entertained the highest respect. 
Being promptly shown into an office Mr. Collins 
presently entered, and being familiar with Amerton’s 
name as a writer, regarded him with some curiosity. 
Philip explained that a lady in whose movements he 
was interested had left her home to elope with a 
military man. 

The officer looking at him asked if the lady were a 
friend of his. 

“ She is my wife,” he answered. 

The words' were easily spoken, but the pain and 
humiliation they caused wrung his heart. 

“ I must ask you to describe both parties,” said the 
inspector, taking a book from his pocket preparatory 
to making notes. 

Philip did as requested in a few graphic sentences. 

“ I merely wash to find some clue to where they have 
gone,” he said. 

“Yes, sir; we must trace them, and then it will be 
an easy matter to get witnesses for the case.” 


A DARK DAY. 


“ I don’t want witnesses,” replied Amerton. 

“ No ? ” said the officer regarding him yfith. evident 
surprise. 

“ No. I intend to follow them.” 

The idea of a duel in a foreign country, fought by an 
outraged husband and the man who had injured him, 
presented itself to the inspector’s mind. He lay back 
in his chair, drummed his fingers on his chin, and said 
thoughtfully : 

“ Better leave the matter in our hands altogether, 
sir. It will be’ more satisfactory.” 

“ No,” answered Philip, “ this is no ordinary case.” 

“ That’s what they all say,” Mr. Collins remarked 
philosophically. 

“They?” 

“ All husbands who come here ; but after all we find 
one case much the same as another ; but to every man 
his own misfortune seems the worst — that is if it 
happens to him for the first time.” 

Amerton rose ; the experiences of a detective officer 
were not calculated to raise his views of humanity. 

“ I have reasons,” he said, “ for wishing to find and 
follow my wife. I shall thank you to let me know 
immediately you have found some clue to her route.” 

“ Kely on it, we’ll do the best we can for you, sir. I 
shall call on you the minute I have any news to com- 
municate.” 

Philip thanked him, took up his hat and departed. 
As he walked towards Charing Cross he saw Ulic Tar- 
bert advancing with an absorbed air. He did not 
notice Amerton until the latter stood before him. That 
Ulic’s cousin had dealt Philip the greatest wrong pos- 
sible, was no reason it should be resented on one who 
was innocent. Amerton shook hands with him. 

“ Were you looking for me ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” answered Ulic. Then observing his friend’s 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


m 

face, he added, “Has anything happened — you look 
quite ill.” . . 

“Something painful — unspeakably painful has oc- 
curred to me.” 

“ Nothing very serious I hope.” 

“My wife has left me.” 

Left you for good ? ” 

“Yes, eloped.” 

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed — then added, “not 

with ” and paused. 

“ With Colonel Tarbert, yes.” 

“ The scoundrel,” said Ulic. 

And then in silence he took Amerton’s arm, and 
walked part of the way with him towards his deserted 
home. 


CHAPTER XV. 

LORD KERRY CONVERSES. 

During the forenoon of the day on which Mrs. Philip 
Amerton left her husband’s house, Ulic Tarbert called 
by appointment on his cousin Lord Kerry. Instead of 
spending the winter abroad as usual, the earl remained 
in town, occupying the family mansion, a dark and 
cumbrous building situated in Lowndes Square. Enter- 
ing this old and gloomy dwelling with its spacious 
marble hall and wide oak staircase, hung with family 
portraits, Ulic felt as if he had stepped into past ages. 

Between the present Lord Kerry and Ulic a warm 
friendship had ever existed, principally sustained by 
correspondence and perhaps the more firmly established 
from lack of continual intercourse. The healthy frank- 
ness and honest simplicity of Ulic’s nature were fully 
appreciated by Lord Kerry ^ whom, on the other hand, 


LORD KERRY CONVERSES. 


187 


his cousin admired for his brilliancy and worth. In 
the last century my lord would have been described in 
the ponderous dedications of humble scribes, as a man 
of parts. He had penned sonnets and composed songs, 
written a novel and contributed tales to magazines, 
knew the merits of a picture at* a glance, was an ex- 
cellent photographer and a skilled musician. He would 
readily have gained distinction in some branch of art 
had his health permitted the application necessary to 
the achievement of success. 

His sympathy with distress was practically expressed 
by munificent gifts to charities, especially to hospitals 
treating the disease from which he suffered ; the poor 
ever found in him a helpful friend. The whole aim 
and object of his existence since his entrance into man- 
hood’s estate, was to acquire perfect health. Soon after 
his coming of age a painful spinal disease rendered him 
a helpless invalid for years ; from which time the pre- 
servation of his life had become the study of his days. 
He had therefore visited renowned physicians in many 
countries ; drank the waters of famous springs ; tried 
the effects of various climes with some beneficial eflfect. 
But the fear of a malady from which he never wholly 
recovered was for ever before him, a dark curtain shut- 
ting enjoyment from life. 

To have health he would have given the last penny 
he possessed, but that he desired most was not his. 
Like humanity at large, he was therefore dissatisfied 
with his lot; and whilst clinging to it tenaciously 
longed to exchange it ardently. 

When Ulic entered the room known as the little 
library, he found his cousin lying on a sofa ; cushions 
supported his back, a rug covered his legs, and a port- 
able book-stand beside him held a novel which he 
skimmed. A mass of red brown hair and a thick auburn 
beard threw the pallor of his face into sharper contrast ; 


188 


A MODEKN MAGICIAK. 


under a broad forehead, large luminous eyes burned 
vividly ; his features were sharpened by illness, their 
expression saddened by thought. 

“ Ah, Ulic,” he said, moving aside the bookstand and 
stretching out his hands, “ it is weeks since we have 
met.” , 

‘‘We have both been in town,” replied Ulic, as if he 
would intimate his presence might be sought if re-, 
quired. 

“ So we have,” replied Lord Kerry ; “ and probabl;^ 
it’s because we are within hailing distance we remain 
apart. But this must not be in future. Bring your 
chair here and sit near me.” 

“ You are better to-day ? ” 

“I am. You know that because you see me in good 
spirits.” 

“Yes; I noticed you were more cheerful than 
usual.” 

“ I am always brighter when I am well. I think it 
must be easy for those who are healthful to be happy ; 
and being happy, to love their kind. And yet they 
don’t ; do they, Ulic ? ” 

“ I greatly fear they don’t.” 

“Now, if I were perfectly strong, instead of blood, 
the milk of human kindness would flow through my 
veins,” he said, pathetically. 

“ No doubt. I believe it’s those who suffer and sorrow 
feel deepest for their race; pain, either physical or 
mental, becomes the one touch of nature that makes 
them kin with misery.” 

Lord Kerry looked at him keenly. 

“ I dare say,” he replied, “ your words are true. But 
do you think if by some miracle I were made whole, 
given again the free use of my limbs, the full strength 
of my body — only think of it, Ulic — that in a couple 
of months I should become so used t,o my new con- 


LORD KERRY CONVERSES. 


189 


ditiou, and therefore so indifferent to its blessings, that 
I would forget the poor cripples all over the land who 
lie helpless in their beds, peopling the wards of 
hospitals or exciting the tender care of homes.” 

“No, Once you had experience of their state, you 
would probably ever after compassionate them. Only 
those who suffer can realize pain, and through this 
medium feel for its victims; just as it is only sinners 
who are merciful, because knowing the temptation and 
bitterness of sin.” 

Lord Kerry put one hand on his cousin’s^ shoulder, 
and said : 

“ What has happened to you ? ” 

The younger man felt his cheeks grow red, but he 
promptly made reply : 

“ Nothing.” 

Lord Kerry withdrew his hand suddenly, feeling he 
had not been answered. 

“ When I lived in Italy,” he said, “ and felt the warm 
sunshine on my face, looked into the cloudless sky, 
and inhaled the balmy air, I felt it was a tragic thing 
a man should feel pain or grief whilst the world 
remained so fair. You in some way bring this 
memory back to me. It is pathetic to hear you, who 
should rejoice in the brightness of happy youth, talk 
of sin, sorrow, and suffering. For you such knowledge 
should not be ; the dew of your young years should be 
fresh upon you ; the morning sunshine of your life 
should know no shadow. What is your age ? ” 

“ Twenty-five.” 

“And I am more than ten years your senior. You 
should rejoice, for now have you reached the most 
delightful period of your days. You are still young 
and unwearied ; dreams of what may be visit your 
waking hours ; the infinite possibilities of life stretch 
before you, like pathways from an unknown valley lead- 


190 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


ing upwards to unsuspected heights ; and you are yet 
removed by ten golden years from the half-way house 
of existence, gaining which, man pauses on the hill, 
and looks back upon the pleasant ways he has traversed, 
loth to continue the forward journey towards mist and 
cloud descending on his path.” 

“ You are a poet.” 

“ And it is we who would teach mankind, but they 
will not hear.” 

“ One of your tribe says we must count time by 
heart-throbs.” 

“And he is right. But then, has your heart 
throbbed unduly ? ” Lord Kerry asked, looking at him 
with an expression betraying not only interest but 
amusement. 

“It has,” answered Ulic simply and honestly. 

Lord Kerry sat up and gazed at him, this time quite 
seriously : 

“ Fate has not dealt with you according to your 
desires ? ” he said. 

“ No. I cannot tell you the whole story.” 

“ Be that as you please ; but, my kinsman, there is 
one question I would ask, and I must be answered 
freely and without reserve,” he added firmly, yet 
kiodly. 

Ulic looked serious : 

“ What is it ? ” he asked. 

“ Tell me if the course of your true love has been 
set aside for lack of such a materialistic consideration 
as gold ? For if so, I must ” 

“ You are a good fellow, Kerry, and I shall never 
forget this; but my disappointment has no concern 
with money. If want of wealth were the only hind- 
rance I should work incessantly, do wonders to obtain 
my ends, but I am powerless to break the barrier part* 
ing me from happiness.” 


LORD KERRY CONA^ERSES. 


191 


Is there no one who can help you to contentment ? ” 

“No one,” answered Ulic dejectedly. 

“ You are certain of this ? ” Lord Kerry asked. 

“ Beyond all doubt,” he replied sadly. 

“ And I daresay you feel miserable, my poor boy ? ” 

“ I am unhappy.” 

“And yet to be five-and-twenty and glow with 
health, and be in love ; ah, what a blissful condition 
yours would seem to others. Surely, no man knows 
when he is happy.” 

The pathos of this speech appealed to Ulic forcibly. 
It struck him his grief was selfish, and he felt abashed. 
There was silence in the room for some seconds, each 
man being engaged by his own thoughts. This was at 
last broken by Lord Kerry, who, awaking from a 
reverie, exclaimed : 

“ Ah, what would 1 not give to be young and well.” 

“ Luncheon, my lord,” responded the butler. 

At the same instant a valet entered the room, 
removed the rug, and handed the invalid a stick. 

“ Will you not take my arm,” said Ulic. 

“ You are very kind,” answered Lord Kerry, and 
they went towards the adjoining apartment, now used 
as a dining-room. The sun shining through the 
coloured glass of a deep bay window flung rich and 
rosy lights upon the Persian carpet and the white 
damask of the table. A wood fire burned upon the 
broad open hearth, above which a chimney-piece of 
carved oak, black with time, rose to the richly 
embossed ceiling. Tapestry covered the walls. 

“Tell me, Ulic,” said Lord Kerry, when they had 
almost finished luncheon and were therefore inclined 
for conversation; “tell me of the world; enlighten me 
regarding society. Who are now its lions, who its 
beauties? What man in your set talks best, what 
woman scandalizes most ? You are, I’m sure, just now 


192 


A MODERN MAOICIAN. 


in ttie mood to describe it vividly ; the zest of life will 
give fluency to your words, whilst your disappointment 
will give piquant bitterness to your pictures. And I 
am in the humour to hear, for you share my solitude 
for an hour, and this nectar, known to prosaic mortals 
as champagne, warms my veins.” 

“ What can I tell you ? ” asked Ulic. 

“Any news from a land we once knew is interesting. 
Remember I only realize society exists from hearing it 
whirl past my doors late at night and early in the 
morning. There is no longer room for me within its 
charmed circle, for pleasure never makes place for 
pain.” 

“ Some day you will be all right, and go back again.” 

“ We will postpone the consideration,” he answ’ered 
with a wan smile; then added quickly, with an effort 
to overtake the light tone in which he had first spoken : 
“ you haven’t answered my questions. Is society still 
beset by the magnificent man who kills women by a 
glance ? Does the elderly youth who is overwhelmed 
by the number of his conquests, the matron anxious to 
dispose of her daughters, the sycophant who smiles at 
all above and frowns at all below her social level, the 
good-natured bore who tells foolish stories, the young 
lady who is disdainful because it suits her black brows, 
the damsel who lives with her head over one shoulder 
to exhibit her well cut profile, the pleasant fellow with- 
out an income who gives good dinners and plays cards, 
the stout man who rants, and the thin man who 
simpers — do they all hold their places as of yore ? ” 

“ All,” replied Ulic; “I suppose they are types en- 
dowed with eternal vitality.” 

“ Aye, there is the pity of it, boy.” 

“ I don’t know that it is ; they amuse each other and 
instruct their spectators.” 

“ Perhaps you are right. They are all on a mental 


LOUD KERRY CONVERSES. 


193 


level, and desire no better company than themselves. 
Each is filled with the importance of his own petty 
purposes, futile aims, mean ambitions, pitiful desires, 
beside which the world at large, brimful of bitter wrongs 
and desperate sadness and woeful tragedies, is as 
nought. Powdered, perfumed, painted, gay buffoons 
in brave apparel, they gambol and play with life as 
jugglers with double-edged daggers; mouth and leer 
at each other, crackle and cajole in feigned gaiety or 
honest idiotcy, making pretence of all they are not. 
Verily, they are a motley crowd, with here and there a 
giant in their midst, or a poet sad-eyed and sober 
because he has strayed from dreams of heroes, and finds 
himself in the company of fools. Come, we will have 
our coffee and cigarettes in the library.” 

They returned in silence. Lord Kerry lay back 
wearily on the sofa. 

“You are fatigued,” said Ulic, “because you have 
excited yourself in talking over-much.” 

“ I am tired,” he replied, a sudden change occurring 
in his mood ; “ but I am always tired. I suppose 1 
shall rest well one day soon. Nay, forgive me, Ulic, I 
should not have said this before you ; I didn’t ask you 
to visit me that you might hear sad things, my 
cousin.” 

“ Let me read to you a little, it may help to quiet 
you.” 

“Not to-day. Apart from the pleasure of seeing 
you, which is great, I want to consult you on a matter 
that has given me uneasiness.” 

“ I hope I may be able to assist you.” 

“ Thanks ; your common sense, I have no doubt, will 
help me. But even if that be powerless to aid, I shall 
have made a confession that will ease my mind.” 

“ You may place every confidence in me,” said Ulic. 

“I know that well.” Then after a second Lord 


194 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


Kerry asked : “ When did you last see my brother 
Bob?” 

“ A week ago, at the club.” 

“It is concerning him I wish to speak. Do you 
know anything of his financial affairs ? ” 

“Nothing; he has never mentioned them to me. 
We are little more than acquaintances, certainly we 
have never been friends, and ai'e not likely to exchange 
eonfidences.” 

“ As you know,” said Lord Kerry, “ I don’t communi- 
cate with him. We have never had two ideas in com- 
mon, or entertained the slightest affection towards 
each other. He went his way, I mine. The fact of 
his being my brother didn’t necessitate our living 
under one roof, nor yet in one continent ; the world is 
large. As you are likewise aware, my father was not 
latterly on the best terms with him. He had twice 
paid Bob’s debts, but repeatedly refused to increase 
his income. He considered him extravagant, and was 
enraged against him some years ago on learning 
through our solicitor of some transactions which Bob, 
speculating on his father’s death and mine, had with 
the Jews. However, you will do me the justice of 
believing I never interfered between them.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Ulic. 

“Very well; now comes the point which troubles 
me. A week after my return from Italy, my father 
casually remarked, one night, he had received a letter 
from Bob, stating he was again involved in debt, and 
requesting the sum of three thousand pounds. I asked 
if he had sent the money, and he replied determinedly 
he had not, nor should he, and spoke strongly on the 
subject. Seeing the matter irritated him, I did nob 
again refer to it, nor did he. It therefore completely 
passed from my mind until a fortnight ago, when look- 
ing over my banker’s account I saw a cheque for five 


LOBD KERRY CON VEKSES. ' 


195 


thousand pounds had been paid to Bob. Much sur- 
prised at this I turned to my father’s diary, believing I 
should find some entry there, showing he had changed 
his mind with regard to paying Bob’s debts. There 
was no such memorandum in the book. The receipt of 
his application was recorded, and two days later a line 
ran ‘ Wrote to my son Kobert refusing his demand.’ ” 

‘‘I suppose,” said Ulic, “he subsequently altered 
his mind and sent the money, though forgetting to 
record it in his diary.” 

“ I had come to that conclusion when it struck me I 
would look at the cheque and see when it was drawn. 
My bankers sent it me. It was dated a day when my 
father, being seriously ill, never left his bed ; it was 
cashed on the second morning succeeding his death.” 

“That is singular,” said Ulic, who in blank per- 
plexity stared at the wall above Lord Kerry’s head. 

“ But more singular still, in the wording and signa- 
ture of the cheque I cannot quite identify my father’s 
writing.” 

“ Then,” said Ulic starting, “you suspect it to be a 
” and he paused. 

“ A forgery,” replied his cousin, supplying the word. 

“ This is terrible.” 

Both men looked at each other in silence for some 
seconds. 

“ In the top drawer at the right hand side of that es- 
critoire you will find an envelope, please hand it to me.” 

When it was given him he took out a cheque and 
passed it to Ulic. “Now,” he said, “examine it care- 
fully, and say if you agree with my opinion.” 

Ulic carried it to the window, and observed the writ- 
ing closely and critically. 

“ If it is no£ your father’s handwriting,” he remarked, 
after the lapse of a couple of minutes, “ it is the most 
wonderfuh imitation imaginable.” 


196 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


You are right ; but the more I look at it, the more 
I am convinced my father never wrote it. No one was 
more familiar with his penmanship than I, and there- 
fore no one is better able to pronounce an opinion con- 
cerning its authenticity. At first sight I believed the 
cheque was in his writing ; on a second inspection, I 
changed my mind. Look at it again and you will see 
any marked characteristics are carefully imitated ; but 
letters devoid of individuality are not so accurately 
followed. For instance, look at the word ‘five.’ My 
father always formed his F by making a single down- 
stroke, and crossing it half way ; this is done here, but 
then the remaining letters in the word, affording less 
grasp of character, are without a certain subtle forma- 
tion that would distinctly mark them as his to one 
accustomed to his writing. Of course the variety of a 
man’s caligraphy, caused by using a steel or quill pen, 
by writing in sun or candle-light, wLen calm or agitated, 
must be taken into consideration. Yet I feel assured 
the cheque was never written by my father.” 

“ That is a serious conclusion,” replied Ulic, taking 
his place beside Lord Kerry. 

“ I know it is. I haven’t mentioned my suspicions 
to any one, save you ; not even to my solicitors, whose 
advice, perhaps, I should take ; nor to my bankers whom 
I should put on their guard ; for the hand which so 
skilfully imitated my father’s writing could also forge 
my name.” 

“ Then,” said Ulic, “ believing it a forgery, you have 
no doubt regarding the guilty party.” 

“ Common sense points to my brother as the culjM-it, 
He received the money ; either he or an accomplice drew 
the cheque.” 

“ I cannot say I have ever entertained*a high opinion 
of his honour.” 

“ I greatly fear he never had any,” 


LORD KERRY CONVERSES. 


197 


" What is best to be done ? ” 

“That is a consideration that has disturbed me 
greatly. It is not the money I so much regret, but 
the meanness of the theft. It grieved me to think Bob 
could be guilty of this deed.” 

“ Perhaps he is not.” 

“ I sincerely wish I could believe him innocent.” 

“ Do you purpose taking any steps in the matter, or 
will you let it be ? ” 

“ Whilst suspicion amounting to conviction rests in 
my mind, it would be unfair to my brother if I didn’t 
give him an opportunity of proving his innocence.” 

“ You are right.” 

“ Therefore, Ulic, I want you to do me a service.” 

“With all my heart it shall be done,” 

“ Will you call on Bob, see him privately, tell him I 
have found a cheque -for five thousand pounds drawn in 
his favour and bearing my father’s signature, which I 
believe to be a forgery ? Mark his face the while. 
Make no mention of my father’s diary, but ask him if 
he can offer any explanations that will help to remove 
my opinion. If he is innocent, as I heartily hope he 
be, then he will state under what circumstances he 
became possessed of the cheque, and how my father 
came to change his mind. If not, it will show him I 
am on my guard, and prevent him attempting another 
forgery.” 

“ I shall carry out your instructions as best I 
can.” 

“I would ask him here, and state my suspicions to 
him, but a certain restraint exists between us which 
might prevent his being communicative to me. I 
haven’t seen him since my father’s death, nor for years 
before* that event. At my father’s written request, I 
have not increased Bob’s annuity ; perhaps he expected 
I should, but under the circumstances I cannot.” 


198 


A MODERN MAGICIAS. 


“ I perfectly agree with yon.” 

“ Do you happen to,know any of his associates ? ” 

‘‘So far as I can see he has no intimate friends, 
though having a large circle of acquaintances.” 

“ He must have friends for all that ; and if he doesn’t 
wear them on his sleeve, its because they are not pre- 
sentable. And amongst them must be his accomplice, 
for I believe he would not be able to imitate his father’s 
writing so cleverly. Keep your eyes open, my dear 
Ulic, and see if Bob knows any man whose character 
will not bear the light of day. And now adieu, I’m 
tired. Come and see me soon again,” he concluded, 
lying back wearily on his cushions. 

“ I certainly shall.” 

“ Come in the morning with brightness and sunshine 
as your meet attendants. You exhale mental and phy- 
sical health, and are good for weary eyes to gaze on. 
Yes, come in the forenoon, for I am always at my best in 
the early part of day, but as it wanes I grow exhausted, 
I believe my life will fade out with the light some even- 
ing, then will come darkness and rest.” 

“ No, no,” replied Ulic, looking down at him com- 
passionately ; “not darkness and rest, but happiness 
and light.” 

“ If I could feel assured of that,” he said sadly. 

“ You will one day.” 

“ Ah, dear Ulic, hope sounds in your voice ; come to 
me soon again.” 

Ulic left the gloomy house, passed through the bleak 
court-yard, and getting into a cab, drove to Colonel 
Tarbert’s rooms in Piccadilly. His mission was not 
pleasant, and he considered he had better, by accom- 
plishing it at once, rid himself of a burden. His know- 
ledge of the colonel’s character, together with the 
evidence of the diary, convinced him Lord Kerry’s con- 
clusion was right; yet having a strong sense of justice, 


LOKD KERRY CON\"ERSES. 


199 


Ulic was anxious to hear the colonel’s explanation before 
finally condeming him. 

On reaching his destination, he walked gravely 
upstairs and lapped at a door bearing his cousin’s name. 

“ Come in,” cried a voice, certainly not the colonel’s. 

The visitor did as desired, and then paused iif wonder 
and dismay. The whole apartment was in a state of 
confusion ; the furniture being hustled into a corner 
that greater space might be afforded for the boxes, 
portmanteaux, clothes, books, and papers strewing the 
carpet. In the midst of this chaos, a pewter pint measu re 
by his side, a pair of trousers in his extended arms, 
knelt a man whom Ulic recognized as his cousin’s 
eervant. 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” he said, struggling to his feet. 

“ Is your master at home. Lane ? ” 

“ No, sir,” the man replied. 

“ When do you expect him back ? ** 

‘‘ Well, sir, he’s gone out of town.” 

“For long?” asked Ulic, as he more carefully sur- 
veyed the room. 

“ That’s more nor I can say, Mr. Ulic. He went quite 
sudden to-day, leaving me behind, and a deal of pack- 
ing I had.” 

“ Can you give me his address ? ” 

“ I don’t know it, sir,” the man replied with a quiet 
smile. 

Ulic was about to leave when the sound of a heavy 
step on the stair was heard, and a second later a man 
with a square face and massive jaw entered the room. 
Ulic at once recognized the Kev. Amos Berkeley. He 
looked round the apartment wonderingly and gave a 
low whistle. 

“ Moving, eh ? ” he said to the servant, with whom 
he seemed on familiar terms. 

“ Moved,” replied Lane briefly. 


200 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Gone ? ” he asked in tones betraying disappoint- 
ment and displeasure. 

“ Out of town.” 

“ Do you know when he will be back ? ” 

“ In a few weeks.” 

“ Not leaving these quarters ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, I’ll call another day.” He looked at Ulic full 
in the face, nodded to the servant, and departed.. 

When he was beyond earshot, tjlic remarked casually : 

‘‘ I fancy I know that man, but I can’t remember 
his name.” 

“ He’s Jacob Glender, a sporting man, sir.” 

“Ah, of course. Gives Colonel Tarbert advice, 
doesn’t he?” 

“ That’s it, Mr. Ulic ; a clever fellow.” 

“ Come here often ? ” Ulic inquired carelessly. 

“ Well, sir, pretty often.” 

“ Good-day,” said Ulic. 

He descended the stairs soberly and sadly, for he 
had no longer a doubt on his mind concerning the 
colonel’s committal of the forgery. 


CHAPTEK XVL 

PHILIP’S SEARCH. 

Amerton was now weighted by trouble as a burden 
from which there was no relief. Helpless in his grief, 
he was as a reed shaken by the wind. His affection 
for Miriam, which he believed bad died out of his life, 
now she was no longer his, fully awoke, and the 
greatness of his sorrow was but the measure of his 
love. 


PHILIP’S SEARCH. 


201 


Returning alone to his home on the night of her 
flight, his senses mocked him with illusions of her 
presence. As he sat in the study striving to form plans 
for his search, he started repeatedly, now believing her 
footfall echoed in the passage outside, anon convinced 
her voice sounded in an adjoining room. At such 
times he was thrilled by hope, surmising she had 
repented her design and returned to him ; his heart 
beat rapidly, his hearing was strained to catch some 
vibration confirming first impressions ; but silence 'fell 
upon him with sickening weight and chilled his ex- 
pectations to numbness. ^ 

And as time passed the sorrow which mocks itself 
with thoughts of joys long dead visited him. He 
remembered the happiness that had been his in the 
first weeks of his married life, and mourned that its 
duration had been brief. 

It was almost midnight when the street door bell 
rang sharply through the house. This time there was 
surely no delusion. The servants had retired ; he rose 
quickly and opened the door, and with a sense of dis- 
appointment, followed by a feeling of satisfaction, 
beheld Inspector Collins. 

" You have some news for me ? ” he asked. 

The Inspector nodded his head, and Amerton led the 
way into the study. The detective sat down, placed 
his cap on the floor near his feet, and unbuttoning his 
coat produced a pocket-book. Philip watched him 
turn over its pages filled with closely written notes, 
wondering how many secrets they held, what clues 
they gave to acts of crime and wrong. 

" I can’t exactly say, sir,” he began, ‘‘ that I have 
traced the parties in whom you are interested ; but a 
gent answering the description you gave, and a lady, 
whose face was covered by a thick veil, left Charing 
Cross station by the evening train for Paris.” 


20 ^ 


A MOBEKN MAGICIAN. 


“ Could it have been them ? ” he asked. 

“ I’ll read you the notes made by one of our men. 
You see some members of the force are always on duty 
at the principal stations. Trained to observe, they 
notice not only people wanted, but also such as attract 
their attention or rouse their suspicion, hiotes are 
then made which sometimes prove of service. Now, 
sir, one of our men named Grreen, being at Charing 
Cross station when the evening train left, noticed a 
lady closely veiled ; she seemed nervous and impatient. 
When speaking to the gent who accompanied her, her 
voice was low as if she didn’t wish to be heard, and she 
continually looked round as if expecting or dreading 
notice. When the gent had got their tickets she 
entered a first-class carriage, and sat in a corner where 
she was freest from observation. This naturally at- 
tracted Grreen ’s notice and he made the following notes. 
‘ Lady — medium height, plump, erect figure, wearing 
long black cloak. Gent — broad-shouldered and stout, 
prominent grey eyes, heavy moustache, no whiskers or 
beard, military air, dressed in grey tweed suit and 
round hard hat.’ ” 

Amerton groaned aloud. 

“ Kather like the gent you described, sir.” 

“ I have no doubt it’s the same.” 

Satisfied with this admission. Inspector Collins shut 
his book with a gratified snap, and replaced it in his 
breast pocket. “ May I ask, sir,” he said, ‘‘ if I can be 
of any further service to you ? ” 

“ I think not at present, unless you will give me the 
address of a Parisian detective on whose shrewdness I 
can rely.” 

“ Then you intend ” 

“ To follow them to Paris, yes.” 

“ In that case you cannot do better than consult 
Monsieur Tange,” said the inspector, producing a small 


PHILIP’S SEARCH. 


203 


leather case and handing Amerton a card. “He is 
a man of genius, with the eye of a hawk and the 
instinct of a bloodhound. If you want to trace the 
parties, ask his advice and take it, sir.” 

Amerton wrote a cheque for the Inspector’s service, 
and accompanying him to the door bade him good- 
night. 

Left alone once more he no longer sat down to 
bewail his fate ; resolved on performing a duty, his 
strength of character rose to aid its accomplishment. 
For the next few hours he was busy in packing his 
portmanteau, and writing brief notes to editors and 
publishers, announcing his intended absence, the extent 
of which he could not determine. Then overcome by 
mental and physical fatigue he lay down, and strove 
to rest. But sleep fled before the haunting thoughts 
and distracting memories rising before him in the 
darkness of night. Each slow-pacing hour teemed with 
pictures, in which his wife was the principal figure, 
and when daylight came he hailed it with unspeakable 
relief. 

Morning saw him on his way to Paris. He was now 
consumed by impatience to behold his wdfe and bring 
her back to the home she had abandoned. He felt no 
uncertainty regarding the -decision she would make, 
being convinced she would return with him. With 
every mile of the journey his spirits rose, believing he 
should soon stand face to face with his wife, and rescue 
her from the tempter. 

The fatigue and excitement he had undergone during 
the last twenty-four hours overcame him, and he slept in 
the train whirling him through France. His slumbers 
however were not peaceful, for as in his waking hours 
so was it in his sleep ; his wife’s face was before him, 
now smiling on him as in the early days of their 
married life, now gazing at him in mute reproach. 


204 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


finally fleeing from fiim terrified and saddened. Tlien 
it seemed they two stood alone in a vast world of pro- 
found silence ; no motion of life was perceptible, no 
sound of moving things in heaven or on earth came to 
his ears. The air was heavy from nameless oppression : 
he would have cried aloud, but articulation became 
impossible ; she who was with him could speak no 
word or make no sign. Even as he gazed, her face 
and form grew indistinct ; fear fell upon him that she 
was dead : in an agony of apprehension he stretched 
forward his arms towards her ; they embraced space, 
and he woke with a moan to find himself entering 
Paris. 

Before he had been many hours in the capital, he 
had obtained an interview with Monsieur Tange, from 
whom he learned that two persons answering to the 
description of Miriam and Colonel Tarbert had that 
evening left for Turin. Philip determined to continue 
his pursuit the following morning. 

Meanwhile his impatience allowed him no rest. 
Doubt arose in his mind as to whether the detective 
had mistaken the identity of his wife and her lover ; 
and thinking and hoping they might yet be in Paris, 
he mixed among crowds on the boulevards, scanning 
every face he met, and visited the principal theatres in 
hope of finding the objects of his search. It was 
morning when he returned to his hotel weary and 
dejected ; next day he departed for Turin. 

Here he encountered vexations that would have 
daunted a resolution less strong than his. The Italian 
police were wholly devoid of the penetration or sagacity 
of the French detective force, and could afford him no 
help. One officer indeed declared he had seen two such 
persons as Amerton described, but on cross-examination 
their height and general appearance proved to be 
wholly unlike them. The officials had no sympathy 


PHILIP’S SEARCH. 


205 


with his search. The fact of a lady preferring another 
man to her husband was of such common occurrence 
in their experience as to be scarce worthy of notice. 
In speaking to him on the subject they could hardly 
repress their smiles, and Amerton secretly felt he was 
an object of wonder and amusement to these merry 
men. 

One of them, a grey-haired grandfather who had 
seen the world, ventured to impart portion of his phi- 
losophy to the grave-faced Englishman. The signor, 
he considered, should take consolation in considering 
the lady had evinced bad taste in leaving a husband so 
brave and gentle. But women were strange creatures, 
and seldom appreciated their lawful spouses; it was 
their way. Pie would assume the liberty of reminding 
the signor the world was large, and kindly heaven had 
peopled it with beautiful women. It was not for him 
to boast, but assuredly it was universally acknowledged 
the daughters of Italy were fair and loving ; there were 
many of them, he had no doubt, would willingly com- 
fort and console the signor in his great sorrow. 

Philip turned from him in disgust, and left the 
philosopher to mourn over the uncourteous savages of 
England. 

It was clear to Amerton he must not expect much 
help from the Italian police. Eesting on the assurance 
of Monsieur Tange that the object of his search had 
started for Turin, it occurred to him she might yet be 
here, and accordingly he lingered in this picturesque 
town, frequenting churches, palaces and galleries in 
hourly expectation of finding her. But his search was 
futile, and no day passed but he was tortured by think- 
ing that the man whom of all others he most detested 
was with her. It seemed cruel to think he was power- 
less to rescue her, to assure her no anger rested in his 
heart against her, only compassion and forgiveness. 


206 


A MODERN MAGICIAN 1 


A thousand times he called upon Benoni, but in this 
hour of need the mystic seemed to desert him. Had 
Benoni but humoured him in his folly to deride him 
in his misery ; or was this sorrow a trial through which 
he must necessarily pass? He remembered Amuni 
had said that in his onward course temptation w^ould 
assail, grief attend, and humiliation lie down with 
him ; for ’twas only when he had sown in pain and 
sorrow he might reap in peace and joy. He scarce 
knew if he should blame Benoni for this desertion, for 
in his present bewildering condition his thoughts 
became wholly confused. 

And he to whose eyes the world had never seemed 
fair, now beheld desolation descend upon all things; 
for hope was wrenched from his heart as a tree is up- 
rooted from the ground, and all the world was sad. 

But though discouraged and disheartened by the 
failure of his search, he still resolved to find his wife 
and bring her back to his home. This was a reparation 
he felt assured he owed her, and from his purpose no 
man might gainsay him. Losing all clue of her at 
Turin, he resolved on allowing his pursuit to be guided 
by chance ; for in the tumult of his present feelings 
the voice of intuition seemed lost. He therefore 
travelled to Grenoa, where he again made inquiries of 
the police, with a result not less unsatisfactory than at 
Turin. After spending some days here he left for Pisa 
and from thence proceeded to Florence. 

Kevisiting cities where not two years since he had 
spent the first weeks of his married life, was inex- 
pressibly painful to him. Scarce a street in these 
well-remembered towns but brought back recollections 
which smote him sorely. Here was the hotel at which 
they had stayed, there the cathedral they had entered 
together, beyond, the palaces before which they had 
stood in wonder and admiration. Every stone had a 


PHILIPPS SEARCH. 


209 


memory wHcLl called out to him, and day by day a 
sickening feeling fell upon his heart because of all that 
had been and was not. 

Up and down thoroughfares filled with life, colour, 
music and motion; in and out of cathedrals crowded 
with worshippers and supplicants, he passed, a pale- 
faced wanderer sad amongst his contented kind. With 
the interests and pleasures of those around him he had 
no concern, he was dead to all things save his untiring 
search. Each morning he rose with resolution un- 
daunted; every night saw his pursuit unsuccessful. 
His perseverance, however, was not to be shaken and 
seemed at last about to be rewarded. 

One day a member of the police informed Philip a 
lady and gentleman, answering in all respects the des- 
cription given by him, had passed that morning 
through Florence in a train starting from Arezzo and 
journeying to Eome. The gentleman had alighted at 
the station, but returned immediately to his carriage. 
Hearing this news Philip left by the next train for the 
capital ; but here all trace of those he sought vanished. 
Kome was indeed crowded by English and American 
visitors, but according to the police, none of them 
seemed to correspond with the details Amerton gave. 
Having now considerable experience of the carelessness 
of the Italian police, this fact did not dishearten him ; 
he therefore determined to continue his personal 
search. i 

Days of pain and weariness now succeeded each other. 
Galleries, gardens, streets, ruins, palaces, churches 
were visited by him continually. More than once 
it indeed seemed as if he had found his wife ; a slight 
resemblance in a profile, a similarity in height, made 
his heart beat quick from expectation ; but he became 
plunged in greater despondency on discovering his 
disappointment. 


208 


A MODERN MAGICIAN, 


Three months had now elapsed since he had left 
England. Ulic Tarbert wrote to him continually, but 
gave him no tidings of her concerning whom he most 
wished to hear. With Lady Pompey who was in Spain 
he held no communication. When he had spent 
several weeks in Eome, he resolved to leave the city, 
yet knew not in what direction he should pursue his 
quest. No thought of returning home whilst his 
mission was unsuccessful occurred to him ; so long as 
his wife remained under the protection of another man 
he could not resume his former life. 

How many months more he might continue a 
wanderer he dared not think. His health, never strong, 
had under strain of excitement and stress of fatigue 
more than once threatened to give way. The one 
object occupying his thoughts night and day drove him 
almost to distraction. His life he acknowledged was 
ruined; his popularity as a novelist had received a 
serious blow by the abrupt discontinuation of his serial 
story in an important magazine ; and his future pro- 
ductions, and consequently his income, must of 
necessity suffer because of his enforced idleness from 
literary work. Yet so long as life was left him would 
he search, throughout the world if necessary until 
he found his wife. From this fixed thought he never 
departed. 

On an evening when he felt more tired and depressed 
than usual, he passed the church of Trinita de’ Monti, 
and hearing sounds of music floating towards him, 
entered within its doors. The interior was unlighted, 
save for tapers burning on the high altar, and dim yellow 
lamps glimmering before shrines. The Gothic arched 
transept and side chapels were wrapped in shadows ; 
he could but indistinctly perceive the dames du Sacre 
Coeur and their pujuls kneeling with bowed heads 
within the choir. 


PniLU^’S SEAECH. 


209 


Talcing a little rusli-bottomed chair, he seated him- 
self near a pillar, and listened to the pure sweet voices 
of these young girls, rising and falling in plaintive 
supplication to the accompaniment of a mellow-toned 
organ. His receptive nature yielded to the influences 
around him. The hour, with its fading light and 
gathering shade ; the church with its vision of white 
veiled, sweet-voiced worshippers; its radiant altar 
gleaming through clouds of incense ; its chapels with 
wondrous pictures and marble statues whose white 
outlines seemed ever and anon to vibrate with sudden 
life in the gathering gloom, impressed him strongly. 
The world with its vortex of pleasures, its whirlwind of 
passions, its burden of sorrows, had no place in this 
home of prayer. The spirit of peace dwelling in its 
atmosphere slowly crept into his heart ; a weight was 
gradually lifted from his soul ; healing balm fell upon 
wounds that had bled overmuch because of their depth ; 
and a sense of grateful rest filled him with comfort he 
had not known for long. Overcome by his emotions 
he buried his face in his hands and prayed. 

The plaintive music which had lulled him almost to 
unconsciousness suddenly ceased, but he dared not 
move ; the odour of incense became stronger and more 
strong ; and save for the faint tinkling of a little bell, 
the air was tremulous with silence ; a benediction fell 
upon him. AVhen presently he raised his head the 
church was almost deserted. The sisters and their 
pupils had quietly vanished ; the altar lights were 
extinguished; the priest and his acolytes had dis- 
appeared. 

Leaving the church with lingering steps he crossed 
the roadway, and leaned on the broad old balustrade 
overlooking the flight of wide time-worn steps 
descending to the Piazza di Spagna. As he did the 
bell of a neighbouring church suddenly rang out the 


210 


k MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Ave Maria, and was answered faintly in the far distance. 
Then from every belfry throughout the length and 
breadth of the city came the chiming of bells, clashing 
in a medley of sweet sounds, ceasing suddenly as if for 
breath to begin anew, all impatient meanwhile for 
faint responses that rose from distant convents without 
the city gates, and quiet monasteries smrounded by the 
dreary Campagna. 

When this farewell to day was hushed to silence, 
darkness swiftly fell upon this capital of many 
memories; for already the sun had gone down as a 
cloud of fire behind the black dome of St. Peter’s ; and 
the countless towers, turrets, and belfries of churches, 
the terraced roofs of houses, and columned fronts of 
palaces, lying in a tangled mass between the distant 
Vatican and the hill of Monta Trinita were quickly 
lapsing into general indistinctness. In the Piazza di 
Spagna below Philip saw shops gleam brightly, and 
watched the light of street lamps spring into existence 
down the narrow Via de’ Condotti, opposite where he 
stood. Beyond these specks of flame all was darkness. 

The swift death of this fair day, begun so brightly, 
bore some affinity to the sudden cloud that had fallen 
on his life. He watched the deeper blue of night cross 
the sky, and saw the first stars spangle in their spheres. 
No sound disturbed him ; time passed unheeded. 

Scenes in the history of Imperial Kome, blood-stained 
and triumphant, cruel and regal, rose before him. 
Where were now the actors who had taken part in these 
civil wars and brilliant pageants ; of what account to 
them the power and glory for which they had sacrificed 
much ? These things they sought abided not ; neither 
had they ; all that was mortal of them had passed into 
nothingness and night, and only ruins and fragments 
remained to tell that they had been. 

An icy breath sweeping past his cheek suddenly 


I»HILIP’S SEARCH. 


211 


recalled his thoughts, and without beholding it, he 
became conscious of a figure standing beside him, even 
as the blind feel the warmth of sunlight without per- 
ceiving its rays. A slight shudder ran through his 
frame ; but for a second he was incapable of movement. 
Then, with an effort, he turned round expecting to see 
Benoni, and beheld’ his wife standing near. Her 
downcast face was pallid ; her blue eyes gazed into his 
beseechingly ; her pale lips parted as if to speak. 

“ Miriam, Miriam,” he exclaimed, stretching out his 
arms, forgetful of the past in his satisfaction of the 
present. But without a word she glided noiselessly 
aside, and vanished from his sight. 

“ Miriam, Miriam,” he cried aloud, unable fully to 
comprehend what he had seen, but no response came 
from the darkness. 0, Grod,” he cried out, “ leave 
me at least my senses.” He did not doubt he had 
veritably beheld his wife, yet could not understand for 
what purpose this vision had appeared. Then a 
thought flashed upon him, which made him pause. 
Surely she was no longer of this earth. He remembered 
the deathly pallor of her face, the ethereal light in her 
eyes. Had her spirit travelled from the' bounds of 
another world to entreat pardon for the wrong she had 
wrought? His mind grew confused from fears 
memories and surmises rushing upon him. 

Leaving the spot where he had stood, he descended 
the steps, and reaching his hotel immediately went to 
his bedroom. The candles on his dressing-table were 
lighted, and near the mirror he perceived a little note 
directed in Benoni’s writing. Hastily tearing it open 
he read the following words: “Peace be on you. 
Ketum homewards; we shall meet in London.-- 
Benoni,” 


212 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

COLONEL TARBERT IS PERPLEXED. 

One bleak afternoon in March Ulic Tarbert walked 
down Piccadilly. His mind was occupied in think- 
ing of Amerton, from whom he had heard that morn- 
ing. Philip had written in a dejected mood, stating 
his failure in discovering any reliable traces of his wife, 
and his despair of being able to rescue her from the 
life on which she had entered. The letter being penned 
before Amerton had seen his wife in spirit, or read 
Benoni’s note, contained no mention of these facts. 

Ulic had heard nothing of Colonel Tarbert since his 
elopement, and was unable to obtain any information 
concerning his movements, or otherwise help Amerton. 
The news of his brother’s delinquency had grieved Lord 
Kerry, and confirmed his belief in the colonel having 
forged his father’s name. He would have submitted 
the writing to an expert, but Ulic begged him to await 
Bob’s return, and hear what explanations he might 
offer ; and for the present the matter rested. 

As Ulic passed the house in which the colonel oc- 
cupied rooms, he raised his eyes to the windows and 
was surprised to see light shining from them. He 
concluded his cousin had returned, and all the indig- 
nation he had formerly felt against him taking new life, 
he resolved immediately to demand of him where was 
the woman he had ruined. But reflecting that if face 
to face with him at that moment he would not be 
accountable for his acts, and knowing the colonel was 
a man not to be forced into giving information, he saw 
it was better policy to control his feelings before meet- 
ing him. 

He therefore determined to walk up and down the 


COLONEL TAEBEKT IS PEEPLEXED. 


213 


opposite side of Piccadilly until his sudden anger some- 
what cooled. He was resolved in not postponing his visit, 
indeed he could not rest until he received some tidings 
of the faithless wife which might be communicated to 
her husband. As he passed backwards and forwards 
his glance was continually fixed on the windows of the 
colonel’s rooms, and once he saw the reflection of his 
cousin’s portly form on the blinds. There was there- 
fore no doubt of his return, and impatient of further 
delay, and determined to conceal his feelings at least 
until his object had been gained, Ulic directly crossed 
to the house and knocked at the door. It was opened 
by Lane^the colonel’s servant, who seemed surprised to 
see him. 

“ Your master has come back,” Ulic said. 

“Yes, sir,” replied Lane, standing in the centre of 
the passage as if wishing to intercept his entrance. 

“ 1 know,” said Ulic, moving the man aside as if he 
were a piece of furniture, “ he is at home, and I shall 
announce myself,” and so saying he went upstairs and 
rapped at the sitting-room door. 

“ Come in,” cried the colonel. 

Ulic entered, and found his cousin standing in the 
middle of the floor, surrounded by portmanteaux which 
had just been unpacked. His face looked bronzed as if 
from travel, his figure more portly, the expression of his 
protruding eyes more unpleasant than before. At first 
sight of Ulic he was surprised, and evidently displeased ; 
however, he immediately recovered himself, and said 
carelessly as he advanced with extended hand : 

“ Ah, Ulic, it is you ? How did you know I had 
returned ? ” 

Ulic put his hands behind his back and replied, 
“ I saw light in your windows, and took it for granted 
vou had come back. Lane would probably have denied 
you were at home, but I said I should announce my- 


214 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


self.” His tone was studiously cold, if civil. Noting 
this, and heedful likewise he had ignored his out- 
stretched hand, a hard light came into the coloneFs 
eyes, his manner suddenly changed, and a contemptuous 
smile hovered on his lips. He turned away, and plac- 
ing his back against the chimney-piece, surveyed his 
visitor with a; critical gaze, in which there was not a 
little insolence. 

‘‘ May I inquire,” he said slowly, “ to what cause I 
am indebted for the pleasure of this unexpected visit.” 

‘‘ Becaused I wished to ask you ” Ulic began, and 

then fearing his eagerness might defeat the object of 
his desire, hesitated. » 

“ Concerning my health,” the colonel added sneer- 
ingly. “Well, it must be a matter of interest to you. 
Believe me, it has always been a source of regret to me, 
when I consider my life stands between you and forty 
thousand a year. Poor Kerry, being too good for earth, 
cannot live long. Heaven in its wisdom will doubtless 
soon take him to itself ; by the way, on what stage of 
the journey is he now ? I am anxious to know. The 
children of Israel whom I have favoured with bonds 
count his feeble days.” 

Ulic could not sufficiently control himself to reply, 
and his cousin continued : 

“ When he has gone the way of all flesh, his honours 
will be thrust upon me, and then you will be my heir 
presumptive. Therefore, dear Ulic, I don’t love you ; 
Kerry doesn’t love me. I would not grudge him to 
Heaven, and you would laugh to know I was in hell. 
Consider how potent a motive for love or hate is 
money.” 

“I didn’t come here that I might listen to your 
opinions on such subjects.” 

“ Really. You merely came to see me. Very kind 
of you. You and I, Ulic, have never been friends; 


COLONEL TARBERT IS PERPLEXED. 


215 


why, because no man loves his heir. Now, in order to 
remove this barrier, I intend one of these* days, when I 
have sown my wild oats, to marry some fair creature 
anxious to reclaim my wickedness in return for a 
coronet, and beget babes. Then you will be no longer 
my heir.” 

“ That shall be as it please Heaven.” 

The colonel laughed, but an angry light in his eyes 
showed his mirth was baleful. 

“ A truly religious sentiment,” he answered. ‘‘ My 
proposal, I see, doesn’t fall in with your schemes, and 
you believe, as all men, a just Heaven will help you to 
your desires. Has some kindly and speculative Hebrew 
aided you on the chance of your succeeding to the 
peerage ? Times are, I know, hard ; but don’t enter- 
tain false hopes : you will never be Lord Kerry.” 

“ I came here,” said Ulic, subduing his temper and 
steadying his voice, ‘‘ to ask you a question. Where 
is Mrs. Amerton ? ” 

Colonel Tarbert winced ; his heavy lids almost closed 
over his grey eyes. For a moment he made no answer, 
surveying his cousin the while deliberately and critic- 
ally. 

“You are interested in the lady?” he flippantly 
asked, raising his brows. 

“ I am.” 

“ Ah, how charming. The wives of our friends are 
proverbially fascinating. Strange, isn’t it, what attrac- 
tion another man’s property has for us. That you 
admire her is a revelation, though not a surprise. It 
is quite a family affair. I had no idea we had a single 
taste in common; but then I grant you she is an 
exceedingly fine woman, or was, I should have said.” 

He paused to observe the effect of his words ; but 
Ulic strove hardly to conceal a wrath which well-nigh 
choked him from suppression. 


216 


A MODEEN MAGICIAN. 


“ You say was,” lie replied gravely, “ do you mean 
she is deadi” 

I’m not aware that she is. Don’t look so solemn, 
my friend ; there is yet a prospect of happiness for 
you. If I have forestalled you in her affections, you 
must remember I am your senior by some years.” 

Ulic longed to clutch him by the throat, but he had 
not yet gained the information desired, and therefore 
continued to assume an outward calmness. 

“ I merely spoke of her in the past tense,” continued 
the colonel, “ because she no longer has any attraction 
for me ; hence I conclude her charms have vanished. 
No doubt a man who has not had my experiences may 
think otherwise — yourself for instance. I am easily 
satiated and desirous of constant change. Once, 
indeed, I offered to make her my wife ; probably being 
aware of my peculiarities, she was judicious enough to 
refuse me. Then she married another, an excellent 
fellow, I have heard, and extremely talented, it is 
admitted. Later on, as you are aware, she did me 
the honour of accompanying me abroad for a short 
trip.” 

“ Your e\dl arts tempted her.” 

"Very flattering, my dear Ulic, to say so. I have 
fascinations no doubt ; but then a woman never needs 
a tempter.” 

" This man,” said Ulic in his heart, " is an in- 
carnate fiend ; ” but with an effort he still controlled 
himself. 

" When we had grown tired of each other^s company 
we parted. I may warn you that, though she is a 
superb creature, she has a devil of a temper.” 

" Where did you leave her ? ” 

" At Milan. But I doubt if you will find her there 
now.” 

Do you know where she really is at present ? ” 


COLONEL TAEBERT IS PEEPLEXEB. 


2ir 


** Not in the least.” 

Ulic felt doubtful concerning the truth of these 
\rords, fearing greatly they were spoken for the purpose 
of misleading him. 

“ 1 wish I could help you in this matter,” continued 
his cousin, with a leer, “ but I fear my recommenda- 
tion would be of little service.” 

“ You are a scoundrel,” said Ulic. 

The colonel raised his eyebrows. 

“ Ah,” he replied with studied coolness, one is 
never appreciated by the members of one’s family; 
from you least of all would I expect justice, you who 
are blinded to my merits by jealousy.” 

“ Not all your effrontery will blind me to the fact 
that you are a villain.” 

With a few rapid strides the colonel with clenched 
fists and eyes ablaze, advanced and faced his cousin, 
Ulic never flinched, every muscle in his body hardened 
in preparation for combat, and he keenly watched for 
the first movement the colonel might make. For a 
couple of seconds they stood staring at each other 
fixedly, anger, hate and defiance glaring in their eyes, 
then with a flip of his finger and thumb the elder man 
said as he turned away : 

“ Bah, you are but^ mere hot-headed boy.” 

And you are a vilfein and a coward.” 

The colonel stroddt forward again and with his 
clenched fist aimed a blow at his cousin’s face. Ulic, 
who had some experience in the art of self-defence, 
parried the stroke, and in return struck his assailant 
in the throat. The blow staggered the colonel, 
who with a curse hit out from the shoulder. Ulic 
received his blow in the chest, and next instant 
they had gripped each other and were struggling 
with might and main. The younger man’s litheness 
overmatched the elder’s strength; both fell to the 


218 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


ground, Ulic uppermost. By a dexterous movement 
lie freed himself from the colonel’s grasp, and planting 
one knee on his chest, raised his hand as if to strike 
him. 

“ You beast,” he said contemptuously, and rising to 
his feet he turned away. 

With the dignity which self-command insures he 
walked to the other end of the room, and then turned 
round. The colonel was by this time seated in a chair, 
panting for breath, his face flushed and angry, his 
protruding eyes glittering with hate. 

Ulic watched him with ill-concealed contempt. 

‘‘There is something more I have to say,” he 
remarked. 

“ Leave my room,” replied the colonel, rising as if 
to enforce his command. 

“ Not until I have given you my message.” 

“ I shall receive no message delivered by you.” 

“ But you shall hear this,” said Ulic as he advanced 
within a few feet of him. 

“ If you don’t leave the room ” he began. 

“Some months ago,” said Ulic interrupting him, 
“ you cashed a cheque for five thousand pounds, sup- 
posed to bear your father’s signature. This your 
brother believes a forgery, and awaits your explanation 
as to how and when the cheque was received.” 

The colonel sat down again : his face blanched, his 
mouth twitched nervously, the heavy lids closed over 
his eyes. All consideration of his recent humiliation 
faded in the light of this new trouble rising unex- 
pectedly before him. His usual self-command did not, 
however, wholly forsake him, and he answered : 

“ You may tell Kerry his doubts arise from his 
suspicious mind ; he has always treated me badly, and 
this last indignity doesn’t surprise me.” His cynicism 
had quite deserted him. 


COLONEL TARBERT IS PERPLEXED. 


319 


“You have not answered my question,” said Ulic 
sternly, “ as to when the cheque was received.” 

“It was sent me by my father,” he replied. “I 
have no further explanation to give,” and he rose once 
more from his chair and sullenly turned away as if 
desirous of ending the conversation. 

“ It bears the date of a day on which your father 
never left his bed.” 

“ Does that prove he didn’t send it ? I’ll bandy no 
more words with you or any one else on the subject. 
Go.” 

“ You have no more to say regarding the discrepancy 
between your father’s signature and that on the cheque 
in question ? ” 

“ I defy any man to prove it’s a forgery,” he replied 
wrathfully. 

“ Any man,” replied Ulic, watchful of the effects his 
words might produce ; “ any man ; even the Kev. Amos 
Berkeley ? ” 

The colonel stood still, striving to control limb and 
muscle ; yet, though aware Ulic’s eyes were fixed upon 
him, he felt powerless to command the expression of 
his face. Surely it was a trying moment. This sudden 
mention of his accomplice’s name came upon him as a 
shock, that for a moment deprived him of all power to 
think, of all effort to reply. But by degrees the old 
habit of self-command slowly returned, and he 
answered : 

“I am ignorant of what you insinuate. I have 
never heard the name you mentioned.” 

Ulic glanced at him keenly. 

“ I have,” he said, and without another word left the 
room. 

The colonel went swiftly to the door, and locking it 
returned and flung himself into an armchair. Per- 
Bpiration oozed from his forehead, he clenched his 


220 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


hands until the finger-nails were buried in his palms, 
he cursed his brother heartily, and earnestly prayed 
for his speedy death. 

He had congratulated himself on the success of his 
venture, believing all chance of detection had ended 
with his father’s demise, and now was his brother 
stirring up doubts, demanding explanations, and ready 
to brand him as a thief. But dead men tell no tales : 
his father could never denounce the signature on the 
cheque as a forgery, and there were none to prove it 
such unless Jacob Glender. 

Could this returned convict have betrayed him ? It 
was not likely he would voluntarily place himself 
within the clutches of the law ; but otherwise how had 
Ulic come to know his name, and why had he men- 
tioned it to him ? Had some pressure been laid upon 
Glender to make the confession, or had he, for some 
purpose of his own, divulged the secret ? 

Colonel Tarbert now remembered that amongst a 
pile of correspondence, which had accumulated in his 
absence and remained yet unopened, he had recognized 
Glender’s handwriting on two envelopes. Crossing to 
the chimney-piece, where a couple of rows of letters, 
bills and circulars were ranged, he picked out those 
bearing Jacob’s characters. By way of preparing him- 
self for the worst, before opening them, he went to a 
sideboard, poured out some brandy, and drank it at a 
draught. Then, looking at the postmark dates of the 
envelopes, he opened them in order of priority. The 
first, written two months back, ran as follows : 

“ I have called and found 3'ou were gone out of town. 
I see by a society paper, which my wife takes that she 
may read scandal about her betters, a lady has accom- 
panied you on your journey. Your departure is rather 
unfortunate for me, as I want to see you on business. 
Let me know when you come back,” 


COLONEL TARBERT IS PERPLEXED. 


221 


There was nothing threatening or unfriendly in this 
note, and the colonel laid it aside with a sense of 
relief. He then tore open the second envelope, and 
read its contents. 

“ I suppose you have not yet returned. I have been 
expecting a line from you to say when I might call. S 
Please let it be as soon as possible.” 

This second communication dated but a few weeks 
back. They contained neither threat of exposure nor 
confession of betrayal as he had feared. He wondered 
what the fellow had to say, or what was the business of 
which he desired to talk. Though the notes did not 
convey the news he dreaded, yet they filled him with 
vague uneasiness, of which he resolved to rid himself 
as soon as possible by seeking Jacob Glender and hear- 
ing what he had to communicate. Before leaving he 
called Lane, to whom he said : 

“ I’m going out,” and added, with studied careless- 
ness, “By the way, did Glender call whilst I was 
away ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; he was here the afternoon of the day on 
which you left town.” 

“ Did he give you any message for me ? ** 

“No, sir; he said as how he’d write.” 

“ Did any one call whilst he was here ? ” 

“No, sir; but he came when JMr. Ulio was inquiring 
of you.” 

“ Then they met here ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Had they any conversation?” 

Before answering Lane placed the index finger of 
his right hand on his chin to indicate consideration. 

“ They never exchanged a word, sir.” 

“ Did they leave together ? ” 

“ No, sir. Mr. Ulic remained behind.” 

“Did he make any remark? Tell me all that 


222 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


happened, and don’t leave me to ask you so many 
questions.” 

“ Well, sir, when Griender went, Mr. Ulic turns to 
me and he says, ‘ I knows his face, but I can’t remem- 
ber his name.’ ” 

“ And you told him,” said the colonel impatiently. 

“‘It’s Jacob Griender, sir,’ says I, ‘a sporting 
man ' ” 

« Well 

“ Well, sir, that’s all so far as I can remember.” 

“ He mentioned no other name ? ” 

“ No, sir. He bade me good afternoon, and left at 
once.” 

Did he overtake Gllender ? ” 

“ It’s more than I can say, sir.” 

“ You should have seen.” 

“ Beg pardon, sir ; but I didn’t know it made any 
difference.” 

Tarbert recollected himself, and added, “Well, it 
doesn’t matter. I would rather Mr. Ulic didn’t know 
him. Gllender is a man whose advice can’t always be 
depended on, that’s all.” 

And, putting on his hat, he went downstairs and out 
of the house. 


CHAPTEK XVIIL 

JACOB GLENDER MAKES A ’PROPOSAL. 

Colonel Tarbert walked down Piccadilly that he 
might have more leisure to collect his thoughts and 
arrange his plans. He could not set aside the fear 
that his forgery had been discovered, and shrank from 
the idea of appearing before his brother as a culprit. 
Much rather would he that his father had been his 


lACOB GLENDEK MAKES A PROPOSAL. 


223 


judge or condemner, but to give Kerry this triumph 
over him wounded him deeply. How Ulio had come 
to learn Glender’s real name perplexed him sorely, and 
as he strode forward he swore he would be even with 
his cousin one day. 

His motions keeping pace with his hurried thoughts, 
he soon found himself in the narrow dark street 
branching from the Strand. Arriving at the house in 
which .Jacob Glender lived, the colonel found the street 
door closed. A row of little brass bell knobs confronted 
him, one of which he rang without waiting to consider 
4iif it communicated with Glender’s apartments. In 
response, hurried footsteps were heard rushing down 
stairs, and the door was partially opened by a dirty- 
faced boy, who thrust his head and shoulders forward 
in the aperture, leaving his body and legs safely 
deposited in the hall. 

‘‘What is it?” he asked, when he had finished 
chewing a mouthful of bread, for the youth had been 
interrupted in the pleasant "course of his supper. 

“ Is Mr. Glender at home ? ” asked the colonel. 

“ Don’t know,” replied the lad. “ Why didn’t you 
ring his bell ? Top knob for the third floor.” 

“ I have made a mistake.” 

“ An’ brought me down as has been on my legs all 
day.” 

“ Better you should be on your legs than on your 
head.” 

“ Is it ? ” asked the boy sharply. 

“ Here,” said the colonel, handing him a shilling. 

“ Golly, you are a brick,” he exclaimed as beaming 
with delight he threw open the door. . “ Shall I see if 
Mr. Glender is at home ? ” 

“ Thank you. I’ll go up myself.” 

“Well, I’ll give you a light,” said he, striking a 
match on the leg of his trousers and holding it aloft as 


224 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


if it were a torch, Gas on the lobbies is an extra 
after eight. Mind them broken steps — the landlord is 
a mean chap, but there’s plenty of them in the world. 
Golly, wait till I light another match; there’s the 
stairs leading to Mr. Glender’s floor. I’ll light you 
down if he’s not in.” 

“Thank you,” answered the colonel, have some 
matches.” 

He had by this time arrived at the door of Glender’s 
room, which he struck with his stick. No answer 
greeted him, and he rapped again with like result. 
Concluding his call had been made in vain, he was abo«t 
to lea ve, when he suddenly turned the handle of the door. 
It yielded to his pressure and he entered the apart- 
ment. At first he thought it unoccupied. A low fire 
smouldered in the grate, a jet of gas between the win- 
dows flared brilliantly, the remains of a supper laid for 
two rested on the centre table. ^ 

Not until he had noted these details did the colonel, 
looking towards a corner of the room, discover Glender 
lying in an arm-chair, his feet resting on another, his 
^ce covered by a cotton handkerchief. On a table 
conveniently close to his right hand stood a bottle, an 
empty tumbler and a jug of water; he had evidently 
soothed himself to sleep by means the faculty would 
have described as artificial. His breath was deep and 
regular, and coming near him the colonel became con- 
scious of a strong odour of brandy. 

Fearing he would not be in a condition proper to 
discourse on business if suddenly awakened, the colonel 
was about to leave, but the anxiety he suffered to learn 
if the fellow h[\d betrayed him, or to hear how Ulic had 
come to discover his name, overcame him, and he re- 
solved on arousing Glender. 

Standing beside him he therefore lightly struck his 
leg with a cane. The sleeper moved Ms position, 


JACOB GLENDER MAKES A PROPOSAL, 


225 


breathed less heavily for a moment or two, and then 
fell into rest deeper than before. Colonel Tarbert then 
put the point of his stick under the handkerchief 
covering Glender’s head, and by a quick movement 
flung it in mid-air. The sight it revealed was not 
pleasant. His closed eyes were sunk under his low 
forehead, his eyebrows contracted in a frown, his thick 
lips pressed together, whilst the rigidity of his massive 
chin was more conspicuous than in his waking hours. 

The colonel, with fear, doubt, and anger in his mind, 
looked at the sleeper for some minutes in silence as if 
he would penetrate into tke mysteries of this man’s 
mind and ascertain if he had really betrayed him. And 
this latter suspicion growing almost to conviction as he 
regarded G lender’s evil face, a strong temptation came 
upon him to strangle the fellow as he slept. Even as 
this' thought took possession of his mind, Glender 
clenched his big-jointed hands, his broad chest heaved, 
his head moved spasmodically from side to side, his 
features expressed struggle. 

“ What a brute the fellow looks,” said the colonel, a 
sense of repugnance, not unmixed with vague terror, 
taking possession of him. For a moment he thought 
of leaving the place and never voluntarily seeing him 
again. The impulse was so strong he walked towards 
the door resolved to obey its dictates ; yet he had not 
gone many steps when he laughed at what he considered 
the weakness of a moment, and returning to Glender 
struck him forcibly on the legs. 

The sleeping man awoke with a hoarse cry as if 
giving utterance to long-suppressed agony, flung his 
hands in the air, and glaring at the colonel with a look 
of horror in his startled eyes, said in a low, hoarse 
voice, “ I have been dreaming of you, and — and here 
you are before me.” 

“I’m sorry to disturb you in such a pleasant 


226 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


occupation,” remarked the visitor in his usual ironical 
tone. 

“ It was not pleasant,” replied Grlender, ‘‘ but it was 
deuced real, and it has upset me 1 can tell you. I 
must drink some brandy to set me right again. Have 
some ? ” 

“No thanks, and I think you had better follow my 
example.” 

“ I know what’s best for myself,” he said sulkily, as 
he seized the bottle and pouring out some of its con- 
tents drank them unadulterated. “Grad,” he exclaimed, 
setting the tumbler down,* “ it was a horrible dream, 
and when I woke and saw you I thought it was your 
ghost.” With a ghastly attempt at hilarity he strove 
to laugh, but the sound jarred roughly on its hearer. 

“ That’s one of the results of drinking too much 
brandy before going to sleep,” remarked the colonel. 

“ May be,” replied the other, “ but such a dream 
never came to me before, and I hope never will again.” 

The colonel walked backwards and forwards im- 
patiently, thinking his visit had been made at an in- 
opportune hour, and deliberating whether he had not 
better depart and leave Grlender to recover himself. 
The latter remained absorbed in thought a moment, the 
effects of the scene which recently visited his mind had 
not yet vanished. Suddenly rising and approaching 
the colonel he said earnestly, “ ghake hands and let us 
be good friends.” 

“By all means,” the latter replied, extending his 
hand. 

“ Swear,” continued Glender, still more seriously, 
“ swear that we shall remain friends for ever.” 

“It is best we should always pull in the same 
boat.” 

“That’s not enough,” Glender persisted. “Swear, 
at least, you will never quarrel with me.” 


JACOB OLENDEK MAKES A PEOPOSAL. 


22 > 


“ I fear you haven’t slept away the effects of youi 
brandy drinking.” 

“ Won’t you do what I ask ? ” said Grlender im- 
patiently. 

“ How can I ? None of us can see into the future.” 

“ I know that, and I want to be stronger than fate. 
I’m not a superstitious man, but I have a reason for 
asking you to swear you will not quarrel with me ; then 
if ever you are tempted to fight with me you will 
remember your oath. Swear,” he said beseechingly. 

“ Very well,” replied the colonel, believing Grlender 
was yet half drunk, and desirous of pacifying him, “ I 
swear.” 

Calender stretched his hand, and the colonel felt it 
tremble in his grasp. “ The fellow,” he thought, “ has 
been drinking for some days.” 

‘‘Now you have spoken the word,” said Grlender, 
“ don’t forget it if you ever feel inclined to quarrel with 
me. I shall think of it, I promise you.” 

“ What is the meaning of all this nonsense,” asked 
the colonel, feeling scared to a degree he would neither 
admit nor betray. 

“Never mind.” 

“ I believe you are still drunk.” 

“ Perhaps I am,” responded Jacob stolidly. 

“ Then I’d better leave you to recover your 
senses.” 

“ Don’t go,” said Gf^lender, “ I’m all right. Just you 
wait a moment, whilst I go into the next room and dip 
my head in water, then I’ll be as cool as a cucumber, 
and as fit for business as the Lord Chancellor himself. 
Leave me at once if I’m not.” 

He disappeared before any reply could be made, and 
the colonel for some seconds listened to the splashing 
of water, followed by heavy breathings and hissings 
announcing the drying operation was in process. When 


228 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


these ceased Glender returned, his face glowing, his 
short light hair standing like bristles on his head. 

“ Now,” he began, “ I’m at your service. AYon’tyon 
sit down ? ” 

“ 1 found two notes of yours awaiting me,” said the 
colonel, seating himself. 

“ 1 know. When did you return ? ” 

“ This morning.” 

“ Pleasant time abroad ?” 

“ Yes,” answered the colonel curtly. 

“ Lady come back with you ? ” 

“Am I to understand,” said the colonel rising, “yon 
desire to see me simply that you may ask impertinent 
questions regarding my private affairs ? ” 

“ Why, what a rum fellow you are. If you can’t take 
a pleasant word as it’s meant. I’ll fall in with your 
humour and give you a serious one,” replied Glender. 

“ It will suit me better.” 

“ 1 am glad to hear you say so.” 

The colonel became aware he had made a mistake in 
irritating his companion. If Glender had been under 
the influence of drink on awaking from his sleep, all 
signs of intoxication had now vanished. His face was 
serious in expression, his voice steady in tone, his 
manner composed in bearing. 

“ Now,” said he determinedly, “ I want some money, 
and must have it from you or through you.” 

The coolness of his speech restored the colonel to his 
usual mood. He laughed unpleasantly and, raising his 
eyebrows, replied, “ You wish me to become a mere 
tool in your hands ?” 

“ Put it as you please.” 

“ You think the result will be the same ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Glender, staring at him calmly as 
he spoke. 

The colonel began to fear that through some means of 


JACOB GLENDEB MAKES A PBOPOSAL. 229 

which he was unaware, this man held him in his power. 
He was anxious to arrive at a certainty concerning this 
surmise as quickly as possible, yet unwilling to betray 
his impatience. 

“ And supposing I decline to give, or aid you in 
obtaining money ?” 

“ I have more faith in your sense than to credit your 
refusal.” 

“You are really too kind.” 

“ Well I was kind to you once when I enabled you to 
pocket four thousand five hundred pounds. I may be 
able to serve you in a like manner again.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Don’t you see ? ” said Glender with a broad grin. 

“ I’m afraid I’m rather dull.” 

“Not you,” replied Glender with some contempt, 
“but you want me to out with what’s in my mind.^ 
Well, here it is. I’m ready to write a second cheque 
for the same amount, signed with your brother’s name.” 

“ You are very considerate.” 

“Be serious,” cried Glender impatiently. 

“ Well, I had thought of this before I went abroad ; 
even then the risk seemed too great, now it is out of 
the question.” 

“ Why,” asked Glender, anxious to hear his explana- 
tion, whilst unwilling to suffer disappointment in a 
scheme he evidently regarded with satisfaction. 

The colonel hesitated before replying. It was 
apparent Glender had not betrayed him ; nay, did not 
know the forged draft was under suspicion. 

“ Because my brother is inclined to believe the cheque 
you wrote a forgery.” 

“ You didn’t let me know this before.” 

“ I was made aware of the fact only an hour ago.” 

“ Tell me in what way. This concerns me as much 
as you ; tell me about it, man.” 


230 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Lord Kerry sent me word lie had reason to believe 
his father’s name had been signed to a theque drawn in 
my favour for five thousand pounds, and wished to know 
through what means it reached me.” 

" Sent you a message,” said Grlender wonderingly. 

“Yes, by my cousin, Ulic Tarbert ; you know him,” 
he said, looking Glender in the face and watching the 
effect of his words. 

“ Not I,” replied the other. 

“ Glender,” he said, “ deal fair with me. Yon know 
him.” 

“ I swear to you I never set eyes on the man to my 
knowledge.” 

His tone convinced the colonel he spoke truth. 
“ Then,” said the latter, “ he knows you.” 

“ As Jacob Glender, that may be.” 

“ No, as the Kev. Amos Berkeley.” 

Glender sat upright in his chair startled and dis- 
mayed, and for some seconds no word was spoken 
between them. At length he said, “It’s scarcely 
possible he knows me.” 

“ But he does.” 

“ Why do you think so ? ” 

“ When I sent word to Lord Kerry I would defy any 
man to prove the cheque was not drawn by my father, 
Ulic asked me if I would defy the Rev. Amos Berkeley.” 

“ What did you reply.” 

“ I said I had never heard the name before. He 
stated he had, and immediately left the room.” 

“ Can it be that he knows me,” said Glender in a 
tone of amazement. 

“ He has seen you.” 

“ Don’t speak in riddles, tell me where and when.” 

“ In my rooms on the afternoon of the day I left fox 
the continent. You may have noticed him there.” 

“ A broad-shouldered young man ? ” 


JACOB GLENBER MAKES A HIOPOSAI* 


231 


‘‘ Yes, that was he. When you had gone he said to 
Lane he knew your face, but couldn’t remember your 
name, when Lane told him it was Jacob Glender. How 
he came to know your real name, or if he identifies 
you with it, I cannot say.” 

“ There is something more in this than I can under- 
stand,” Glender said musingly. “ You have never 
mentioned our little business to any one, man or 
woman ? ” 

‘‘ Do you think I’m an idiot ? ” 

“ Not naturally ; but I know the cleverest men have 
been turned into fools by women.” 

“ I dare say, but I haven’t.” 

“ Then if you have kept this transaction dark, Lord 
Kerry may suspect, but cannot prove the forgery.” 

“ Yes, that is my great hope.” 

Glender hugged one knee with his strong-jointed 
fingers, and thought for some time, then said, “ I think, 
in any case, I’m at the safe side of the hedge in this 
business. Even if Lord Kerry proved the signature to 
be mine, which is impossible, yet he couldn’t prosecute 
me without dragging you into the scrape, and that 
he’ll not do.” 

“ He hates me. I’m sure ; but I dare say he would 
hesitate before charging me with felony.” 

“ Will you not try his forbearance further ? ” 

“ No,” replied the colonel determinedly. “ There is 
no nian in whose clutches I would not rather place 
myself.” 

“ You are anxious he should believe your father sent 
you the cheque ? ” 

“ Certainly. I mean to convince him it is genuine.” 

“ How ? ” asked Glender. 

‘‘You wrote a letter purporting to come from my 
father, stating the money was inclosed. This will 
prove the old man complied with my wishes, If Lord 


232 


A MODEKN MAGICIAIT. 


Kerry lias doubts coucerning the cheque, this note will 
help to vanquish them.” 

Jacob Glender grinned. If he suspects the cheque 
to be a forgery, he will believe the letter to be so like- 
wise.” 

“ Suspicion is not conviction. I will defy him.” 

As Glender listened he grinned again more mali- 
ciously than before, and rubbed his face with the palm 
of his right hand. 

“ Has it ever struck you,” he asked, ‘‘ that you have 
had the best of this business all through ? ” 

‘‘ I can’t say it has ; you were paid the price you 
asked for the assistance given.” 

“ Yes ; I made a bad bargain ; but that’s no reason 
why I should stick to it still,” said Glender. 

‘‘ I don’t consider it a bad bargain, and I know you 
must rest satisfied with it now.” 

There,” remarked Glender, placing his hands on 
his knees, squaring his elbows, and thrusting forward 
his head, “ you are mistaken.” 

Colonel Tarbert looked at him in surprise. ‘‘ I don’t 
understand you,” he said coolly. 

“ No, but I’ll very soon explain to you,” remarked 
Glender drily. 

“ The sooner the better.” 

“ I gave you five thousand pounds.” 

You forged a cheque for that amount.” 

You will split straws.” 

I keep to the truth,” answered the colonel. 

“ Be it so. You got five thousand pounds, deducting 
five hundred for me. Do you think that fair treatment ? ” 

“ Decidedly.” 

“Well, I don’t. Why, man, if I hadn’t been a 
downright fool I would have had half profits. That’s 
what I’d call just ; half risks, half profits,” said Glender, 
working himself into anger# 


JACOB GLENDER MAKES A PROPOSAL. 


283 


There was little risk for you.” 

“ And much profit for you.” 

‘‘There is no use in discussing the subject now,” 
the colonel remarked, rising from his chair as if to end 
the conference. 

“That remains to he seen,” said Glender, “and Td 
advise you to sit down and hear me.” There was a 
ring of command in his tone which made his com- 
panion involuntarily obey him. 

“Now,” said Glender persuasively, though deter- 
minedly, “ I’m in want of money. I have had a run 
of misfortune lately; one thing after another has 
failed me ’until I haven’t a penny left. One can’t 
expect his good luck to continue for ever, nor 
his ill luck either. This is my hard time, which 
I hope will come no more. Strange, isn’t it, that 
here arh I in the midst of a city notable for its 
enterprise among nations, I a clever and unscrupulous 
man, and I can’t turn — I was about to say an 
honest penny — any kind of a penny: isn’t it un- 
fortunate ? ” 

“ Surely there is some way in which you could turn 
your exceptional talents to account ? ” 

“ Not, I fear, without putting my liberty in danger, 
and liberty is a boon which those who have known its 
loss can never despise.” 

“ Have you thought of the stock exchange ? There 
are some fine prizes to be drawn there I’m told, by 
one as liberal-minded as you. A man with an ability 
and a conscience like yours might after a couple of 
years* experience of Mark Lane buy a country resi- 
dence and start a brougham.” 

“ I have considered everything, but most of all have 
I thought of 3^ou.” 

“You do me too much honour,” said the colonel 
superciliously. 


A MODEBN MAGICIAN. 


“ Not at all ; you are a man of resources and ex- 
pectations.” 

‘‘ In what way did you imagine I could assist you ? ” 
By drawing a cheque on your brother ; his coffers 
are full ; his generosity might be sufficient to pardon 
a liberty taken with his name.” 

“ I tell you once and for all, this is impossible.” 

“ And since receiving your answer another idea has 
occurred to me,” continued Glender. 

“ I shan’t touch dangerous ground.” 

“ Nor shall I ask you.” 

“ Then what do you mean ? ” asked the colonel. 

“ Simply that I have not been sufficiently paid for 
my former service. Give me five hundred pounds and 
I’ll mention it no more.” 

“ I shall do no such thing.” 

“ Pray consider well before you decide.” 

“ There is no consideration necessary.” 

“ Then no resource is left for me but to act on my 
original thought.” 

“What may that be.?” asked the colonel, feeling 
uneasy at his words. 

“A'short while ago you delicately referred to my 
conscience ; I’m going to prove your estimate of it was 
not mistaken.” 

“ Explain yourself? ” 

“I’ll do anything to oblige you,” replied Glender, 
his spirits rising as his companion’s pei-plexity in- 
creased. “ On the day I forged the cheque, you forgot 
your father’s letter refused the money,” said Jacob, 
concealing the fact he had seen it drop from the 
colonel’s pocket and immediately secured it. “ Since 
then it has remained in my possession; bat in case 
you refuse the trifle I ask, I shall unwillingly be 
obliged to part with' and forward it to your brother, 
It will confirm him in the doubt he already entertains.’ 


JACOB GLENDER MAKES A RROPOSAL, 


235 


Colonel Tarbert glared at bim, utterly confounded 
by his audacity. He had missed the letter mentioned, 
but had attached no importance to its loss, never 
suspecting it had fallen into Grlender’s hands. 

“What a thorough scoundrel you are,” he said, 
recovering from his first surprise. Glender’s brows 
contracted; his face wore an ugly look. “Show me 
the letter, or I shan’t believe you have it,” added the 
colonel, some hope dawning on him that Glender’s 
statement of his possessing it was false. 

Without a word Jacob rose from his chair, unlocked 
a drawer in a bureau, and produced the late Lord 
Kerry’s letter. “ There it is,” he said, holding it before 
the colonel, but beyond his reach. “You are satisfied 
now, I hope.” 

“ I am.” 

Gl^nder replaced the letter, and relocked the 
drawer. 

“ Look here, Glender, what do you mean to do with 
that note ? ” 

“ To sell it to you for five hundred pounds ; not a 
penny less.”^ 

“ Nonsense. I can’t buy it from you.” 

“ Thon I’ll send it to your brother.” 

“ You will not be such an ass as to place yourself in 
danger of the law.” 

“ There is no danger ; he’ll not prosecute.” 

“ But it won’t put a penny in your pocket.” 

“No, but it will be revenge for not having five* 
hundred pounds there.” 

“ You are treating me unfairly.” 

“ I’m sorry we entertain a difference of opinion on a 
subject which concerns us both so nearly.” 

“ You’ll never send it him ? ” 

“ If I don’t have five hundred pounds for it from 
you I shall.” 


m 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


« Come, be reasonable. I’ll give you a hundred for 
it now.” 

“I’ll not take a farthing less than what I say,” 
replied Glender, striving to suppress a smile of satis- 
faction. “ The job I did for you was worth a clear 
thousand ; I got half the sum ; if you haven’t the 
generosity to give me the balance, I’ll wring it from 
you.” 

“ That you never shall.” 

“ We’ll see. I’ll give you a clear week from this day 
to think of my proposal. If you haven’t brought me 
the cash by that time, I swear I shall send the note to 
your brother I ” he said excitedly. 

The colonel rose to depart, “ I’m not to be frightened 
like a child,” he remarked. “ You have refused a good 
offer which shall not be repeated.” 

He turned and left the room without another-word. 

“ I’ll have my money sure,” said Glender to himself, 
and as he Listened to the colonel’s footsteps descending 
the stairs, he laughed aloud. “ He has nibbled at the 
bait ; he’ll swallow the hook before a week has passed,” 
he added, pouring out some brandy and water, and 
drinking to his own good health. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A PRIVATE VISIT. 

WiTHm a week of his interview with Jacob Glender, 
Colonel Tarbert paid another visit to his accomplice’s 
rooms. His call on this occasion was made before 
midday, and was not paid at Glender’s request. Nor 
had the colonel announced his coming. His move- 
ments seemed characterized by indecision. Before 


A PKIVATE VISIT. 


237 


entering the honse he had glanced cantionsly np and 
down the street, as if expecting or fearing the approach 
of some one he sought or avoided ; and on reaching 
the stairs leading to Glender’s apartments he paused to 
ascertain if conversation were being carried on within. 

Satisfied by the unbroken silence ^that the rooms 
were either empty or merely occupied by one person, 
he approached the door and rapped softly. A voice 
within immediately bade him enter, and crossing the 
threshold he stood face to face with Jacob Glender’s 
wife. Her frank open countenance betrayed a surprise 
that suddenly gave place to delight ; then as if remem- 
bering herself, she quickly assumed an air and look 
of coldness and reserve. 

Colonel Tarbert removed his hat and held out his 
hand, looking round the room meanwhile. “ I suppose 
you didn’t expect me,” he said in a tone of familiarity 
which only a long standing acquaintance could have 
warranted. 

“I wasn’t aware you had returned,” she answered, 
lowering her eyes before his fixed gaze. 

“ Glender didn’t tell you ? ” 

“He never mentioned your name to me.” 

“ Is he but ? ” 

“ Yes ; he has gone to Tattersall’s.” 

The colonel seemed relieved at the news. Coming 
close to where she stood he suddenly stooped down and 
would have kissed her, but she quickly drew back. 
For a second he regarded her with a look of disappoint- 
ment. “ What,” he said, “ have you changed in so 
short a time ? ” She made no reply. “ I thought,” he 
continued, “if I came at this hour I might have my 
usual good luck in finding you alone.” 

“ It’s very good of you to come, but — but ” she 

stammered, and a blush dyed her cheeks as she raised 
her eyes timidly, reproachfully to his. 


238 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


He laughed at her confusion in a tolerant triumphant 
way, and carrying two chairs from the wall, placed 
them near where she stood. “Now,” he said, seating 
himself on one of them and pointing to the other, 
“ Sit down here, and tell me what you have heard.” 

His looks fascinated her; the angry thoughts con- 
cerning him which she had for months harboured in 
her mind vanished at the mere sound of his voice ; the 
leproaches she would have uttered failed her in his 
preseT'ce. Now he was beside her she found it 
impossible to suppress a sensation of pleasure wildly 
throbbing in her heart, because of his return. But 
she was resolved he should not witness her delight, and 
therefore strove to restrain its outward expression. 

“ Now,” he said, “ aren’t you glad to see me again ? ” 

“ No,” she answered, briefly, lest her voice might 
betray the falsity of her words if she denied her 
pleasure at greater length. 

He smiled at the deception she would have practised. 
“ May I ask why ? ” he said. 

“ You know well enough,” she replied. 

“ Indeed, I am not aware of anything which could 
change your feelings towards me,” he said, quite 
gravely. 

She looked at him surprisedly. “ Surely you will not 
deny you have gone away with — with a married lady.” 

“ Tell me all you have heard, and I will be perfectly 
frank with you.” 

“ Only what I have said, and there is no use denying 
it, for I read it in the papers, and heard Griender talk 
of it, and — and — ” she concluded with a sob in her 
throat, “ I thought I should have died.” 

A cruel light, such as might gleam in the eyes of a 
beast playing with its prey, spread over his face. “ And 
you believed the slanders of those wicked society 
papers ? ” he asked in tones of reproach* 


A PRIVATE VISIT. 


I did, and I do ; and I hated you, and hoped I 
should never see you again.” 

“ I didn’t think,” he replied in a low key, as best 
befitted the sorrow he would express, “ you could have 
been so cruel.” 

“ It was you who were cruel,” she answered, striving 
to keep back her tears. “ You who often said here in 
this room, there was no woman in the world you loved 
but me. It was wrong of me to hear you say it, foolish 
to have believed it, and I was punished as I deserved.” 
The storm of tears which had been long threatened 
and hardly subdued, at last burst forth, and she cried 
bitterly. 

He waited until her emotion had somewhat subsided, 
and t hen said ; 

“ You mistake my meaning. It was cruel of you to 
believe what the world said, because I am innocent of 
its charges.” 

Her sobs suddenly ceased ; she turned and looked at 
him in wonder and doubt. “ Didn’t you go abroad 
with her ? ’’ she asked, intense eagerness in her voice. 

“ I did,” he replied. 

She turned away disheartened. If he had denied it 
she could have believed his word against the world; 
but he admitted the fact, and her heart was sore. 

“ Don’t judge me until you have heard all,” he 
pleaded. 

“ I don’t care to hear any more,” she said sadly and 
wearily. 

“ Very well,” he answered, sighing as he rose ; ‘‘ I 
must bear your censure as 1 have borne that of others ; 
but ’tis hard you should think me guilty.” 

She looked at him imploringly, but his experiences 
of women’s natures made him fear it would lessen the 
effect he desired to produce if he ex]->lained without 
persuasion. He therefore took up his hat as if to 


240 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


depart, when she rising from her chair cried out 
pitifully : 

“No, no, you mustn’t go without telling me all. 
Think what I have suffered these months past, and yet 
you would leave me without speaking a word that 
might bring me peace. How hard and unkind you are, 
and oh, how weak and foolish am I.” 

“ But you would not hear.” 

“ Even if I said so you should have made me hear. 
Have you no heart ? ” 

He saw the moment had come when she was ready 
to implicitly believe any statement that should vouch 
for his atfection towards her, and he spoke accordingly. 

“To explain my position,” he began, “I must give 
a brief chapter of a family history. Amerton married 
his wife against the consent of her only relative, an old 
aunt. The marriage was on his part, simply a specu- 
lation, for her fortune was large, and he had nothing 
save what he made by writing books. They hadn’t 
been three months wedded when he began to tre^it her 
in the most infamous manner, locked her up for days, 
and ’tis said, used physical violence towards her.” 

His hearer thought of her owm sad fate, and sighed 
for sympathy with this much. distressed lady. 

“ Every one declared it was shameful, but she had 
no relatives to interfere, her aunt having by this time 
married again and settled dowm abroad. To her, Mrs, 
Amerton at last resolved to escape, but she had neither 
money nor experience of travelling, and in her despair 
she appealed to me, as an old friend of the family, for 
help. I agreed, but pictured the construction a cen- 
sorious world \vould place upon her act. She was in 
too much trouble to heed this ; indeed she hoped her 
husband might seek a divorce if she fled with another 
man. It was not for me to shrink from saving a 
wronged and helpless woman, though my reputation 


A PRIVATE VISIT. 241 

might pay the penalty. Accordingly I acted as her 
guardian, until I placed her under the protection of 
her aunt. As I was abroad, I continued to travel for a 
while, and only a few days since returned to town.” 

He feared this lie was over gross even for his victim 
to believe, but trusted her infatuation would blind her 
to its absurdity ; nor was he deceived. Every assertion 
made regarding his disinterested chivalry found some 
confirming response in her heart. She had thirsted to 
hear an explanation so satisfactory. Mentally, she 
blamed herself for the injustice with which she had 
treated him : like the world of which he complained, 
she had wrongfully censured him. When he had finished 
speaking she uplifted a face clear of suspicions as the 
morning sky of clouds, and said reproachfully, “ Why 
didn’t you tell me this before ; it would have saved me 
much pain ; and then to think I believed you so wicked 
for three whole months ; but I was miserable and often 
wished I was dead.” 

He took one of her hands in his and kissed its taper- 
ing fingers. 

“ The plan was arranged so suddenly,” he said, I 
had neither time to nor opportunity of telling you; 
even if I had I would have been afraid to trust our 
secret to anyone, lest escape might be prevented. And 
above all I was anxious to know you had faith enough 
in me to discredit the slanderous reports you might 
hear.” 

“ And I hadn’t,” she said in bitter self reproach. 

“ No,” he replied, with a leer of satisfaction at her 
blind belief in him, ‘'all women are the same, jealous 
and cruel.” 

“ Don’t you forgive me,” she pleaded in a voice whose 
sound might have melted a heart less hardened. “ You 
know if — if — I didn’t care for you, I should not mind 
your going away with another woman.” 


242 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ Of course not,” lie answered lightly, and then added 
in a more serious voice : ‘‘ I wo der if the day will come 
when you will trust me to take care of you for life.” 

She rose up, and removing her chair to its former 
place, stood resting against it whilst she rejplied in a 
troubled tremulous voice : 

“You promised you would never speak to me in this 
manner again.” 

He laughed at her words, and at the strange con- 
fusion in which they were uttered, looking at her 
with his heavy-lidded eyes, as a serpent might at the 
bird it had fascinated. 

“ Never is a long time ; and you know 

“ Don’t say any more,” she pleaded. 

“Not if it displeases you, but you know I love 
you.” 

Her face became crimson. 

She looked at the little round brass clock on the 
chimney-piece, and he followed the direction of her 
eyes. He had now sufficiently prepared the way for the 
object of his visit. 

“ Glender may be back at any moment,” she said 
nervously. “ You had better go.” 

“Very well,” he replied, rising. “ By-the way,” he 
continued, as if a thought had just flashed on him, 
“ Glender has a letter of mine which I dropped here 
one day. Have you noticed it amongst his papers.” 

“ I sliouldn’t know it if I had. Have you asked him 
for it ? ” 

“ Yes ; but he refuses to give it back, just to vex me, 
of course, he is fond of a joke sometimes. It’s of no 
value to him, indeed it’s of no consequence to me 
either, only it being the last letter my father wrote me, 
I should like to keep it for his sake.” 

“Surely Glender doesn’t know this,” she asked 
indignantly. 


A PRIVATE VISIT. 


m 

He does ; but you’re aware he’s a strange man for 
whose whims there is no accounting.” 

“ It is wrong of him ; why don’t you insist on his 
giving it back to you ? ” 

“ Oh I don’t want to quarrel with him about a trifle, 
but I’ll tell you what you might do for me ; if you see 
the note — you will know it by the heavy writing and 
the signature, Kerry ; keep it safe for me.” 

“ Glender never leaves his papers about, but always 
keep them locked in the drawer of that bureau.” 

“ He has a nice collection, I have no doubt,” said the 
colonel with a sneer. 

“ I have never seen them.” 

“ My letter is, I dare say, amongst them,” he said, as 
if he were not already aware of the fact. Then looking 
earnestly at her, he continued : “ Could you not get it 
for me ? ” 

‘‘I fear it would be impossible; he always carries 
the key about him.” 

“ Even when he’s asleep — or drunk ? Now if, when 
you found an opportunity, you took the key from his 
pocket, obtained possession of the letter, and replaced 
the key, he would never know or never suspect that you 
had interfered. Is it too much to ask if you will do 
this for my sake. If so, don’t attempt it ; but if you 
would, I shall think myself indebted to you for life.” 

“ I’ll do it,” she said, after a slight pause, and her 
face brightened with resolution. “ I’ll do my best for 
you.” 

She would run greater risks to please him. 

“ And no woman can do more,” he replied. 

She looked once more towards the clock. How 
quickly the minute-hand had moved. 

“I’m off,” he said, noticing her glance. “When 
may I expect to hear from you ? ” 

“ I can’t say ; it depends on my opportunities.” 


Si4 A MQDERN MAGICIAN. 

** If we wait for them, they always corne ” 

*.* Then I shall await mine. Don’t stay longer, I ain 
80 nervous, fearing he might return.” 

“ What if he did. I’d simply say I had come to see 
him.” 

“ Better go,” she replied ; ‘‘ better leave me at once.” 

You are afraid of him ? ” he asked. 

I have reason to be.” 

“ Well, I’ll away at once.” 

He took her hand and pressed it fervidly. She 
turned away her head, and without another word he 
departed. 

Left alone, she sat down wearily in the chair nearest 
her, thinking of all that had passed within the last 
hour. A sense of satisfaction rose in her heart when 
she dwelt on the refutation Colonel Tarbert had given 
the scandals concerning him. She recalled his words 
of explanation, the tones of his voice, the look in his 
eyes. Then some idea came to her of the wrong her 
love for him dealt her husband which was quickly 
merged in the general misery she felt. 

She sat dreaming for almost half an hour, when a 
heavy and somewhat uncertain step was heard slowly 
ascending the stair ; and a moment later Glender st ood 
in the doorway. She had awaited his appearance 
eagerly, apprehensively, and now looked at him with 
fear and disgust. All signs of intelligence which in 
his periods of sobriety kept the brutal expression of his 
face in abeyance, had vanished ; the animal predomi- 
nated over the man. His eyes, sunken under his 
massive forehead, glared ferociously; his coarse lips 
twitched ominously ; his hard crowned hat was perched 
on the back of his head, his scarf pushed awry, the 
upper part of his waistcoat opened. 

Neither spoke for some time. Each regarded the 
other. Self-pity rose in her mind at being condemned 


A PKIVATE VISIT. 


^245 


to live with this man, and some dim vision of life with 
another flashed before her. 

Muttering an oath, Glender reeled into the room, 
and supported himself against the centre-table. She 
did not stir, but sat quietly and fearfully, numbed to 
inaction by dread. 

W bat are you looking at ? ” he said, in a low tone ; 
and receiving no answer cried in a voice of thunder, “ I 
say, why are you staring at me, eh ? ” 

Her heart sank ; her tongue clove to the roof of her 
mouth from terror. All the savage insthicts of his 
nature triumphed ; reason being dethroned, the re- 
bellious hell within him broke forth in exultation. 

“You won’t answer me, won’t you?” he said, 
malignantly. “You want me to teach you manners, 
do you?” 

She looked towards the door, wondering if she could 
escape; but courage deserting her heart, physical 
strength failed her limbs, and she sat there powerless 
to move. 

“ Come here,” he cried. 

She could not move, and with an oath, he reeled 
across the floor to w'hereshe sat. Then she rose, feeling 
herself as helpless to avoid danger as a dreamer to 
escape a phantom pursuit. 

“ What are you afraid of, eh ? ” he roared, and with 
a quick movement caught her by the arm. She 
screamed from the sudden pain inflicted by his 
grasp. 

“You devil,” he cried, raising his clenched fist and 
aiming a blow at her head. Instinctively she put up 
her arm, and his hand descending on it with vigour, 
and striking it forcibly against her forehead, she fell 
to the ground stunned and helpless. 

The brutal instinct uppermost in his nature at that 
moment was appeased ; he tottered to the next room, 


240 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


flung himself on his bed, and was soon deep in drunken 
slumbers. 

On the evening succeeding the day of this occurrence, 
Colonel Tarbert sat smoking a cigarette after dinner in 
his rooms at Piccadilly, when Lane entered with a 
mysterious air, and said : 

“ A lady wishes to see you, sir.” 

Didn’t she give her name ? ” his master asked. 

“ No, sir ; she merely said a friend wished to see you.” 

“ Friends are many,” he replied musingly. “ Won- 
der who she can be ? ” 

For a second it flashed upon him this visitor might 
be Mrs. Amerton, but on second thoughts he knew from 
the circumstances of their parting a visit from her 
would be impossible. 

“ Show her into the sitting-room,” he said to Lane, 
and then finishing his coffee, rose from the table. 

On entering the adjoining apartment he was surprised 
and pleased to behold Jacob Olender’s wife. “It is 
you,” he said. “ Why didn’t you give your name, that 
I might come to you at once ? ” 

“1 don’t want any one to know I called,” she replied 
in a timid voice. From excitement her colour had 
brightened, her blue eyes sparkled, her fair fluffy hair 
hung in picturesque disorder on her forehead. 

“ Why, you are quite in a flutter ; no one shall know 
you came here.” 

“ If Glender knew,” she said, whilst a look of terror 
crossed her face, “ I’m sure he’d kill me.” 

“Would he? Well, there is no danger. Sit down 
here,” he added, moving to a lounge; when she had 
obeyed him he took a seat beside her. 

“ I have got the letter,” she said, “ and I brought it 
to you for safety.” 

“ You have,” he exclaimed. “ Ah if you knew how 
this relieves me ” 


A PRIVATE VISIT. 


“ Relieves you,” she repeated, in astonishment. 

“ Pleases me, I mean. Where is it, let me see it,” 
he said anxiously. 

She rose up, walked away a few steps with her back 
towards him, unhooked the neck of her dress, and 
fastened it again when she had withdrawn the note 
from its hiding place. “ Here it is,” she said, turning 
and handing him his father’s letter. 

“How can I thank you?” he asked, running his 
eye over the lines, and then, satisfied it was the note 
he required, crushing it in triumph in his hand. “ How 
did you manage to secure it ? ” 

“ Shortly after your departure Glender came in 
drunk.” 

“ How fortunate,” he said. 

She looked at him reproachfully, but instantly forgave 
his selfishness, because he was ignorant of her sufferings. 

“ When he went to bed I took the key of the bureau 
from his pocket, and with fear and trembling opened 
the drawer. My nervousness was so great lest at any 
moment he might rouse up. I couldn’t at first find 
this letter, but I got it at last. In the afternoon he 
woke, but soon drank himself to sleep again, and the 
first moment I thought it safe to leave I came to you.” 

Some faint idea of her devotion dawned on his mind. 

“ Was there ever such a clever little woman ? ” he 
said ; then, thinking of Glender’s disappointment and 
rage on missing the note, he laughed aloud. 

“ You are glad to have it ? ” she said, not quite under- 
standing his merriment. 

“ Glad. It is worth five hundred pounds to me.” 

“Five hundred pounds,” she echoed, not daring to 
consider the consequences which might follow discovery 
of its abstraction. She had thought Glender kept it 
merely to thwart the colonel, and only now divined it 
was valuable to him. “ You told me,” she said faintly, 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ it was merely because of its being your father’s last 
letter you wished to have it.” 

_‘‘Yes,” he replied without embarrassment, ** I believed 
so at the time, but reading it over I see Glender could 
have made money by it. Filial devotion, you see, has 
had its reward.” 

She was too much surprised and occupied with her 
thoughts to make immediate reply. She had no doubt 
of the colonel’s words. She wondered how it would be 
possible for her to live with Glender whilst fear of his 
Suspicions being directed towards her as the thief hung 
above her as a sword suspended by a hair. Here was a 
new weight suddenly added to the burden of her life. 
Her days had been full of misery before, but now this 
new terror would render existence intolerable. 

“ Why do you look so scared ? ” the colonel asked. 

“Because,” she replied, “I had not thought this 
letter was important, and I dread Glender’s anger when 
he misses it, as he surely will.” 

“ Why return to him ? ” 

At his words the room swam round her, and she put 
Up her hands to her face. As she did, the loose sleeve 
of her cloak fell back, leaving a livid mark clearly 
visible on the lower part of her arm. The colonel’s 
eyes rested on the discoloured flesh for a second. 

“ Did he do this ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” she briefly replied, bending her head in 
shame. 

“What a brute the fellow is.” Then into his cold 
grey eyes came a gleam of satisfaction. This blow 
would certainly plead in his favour against Glender. 
“You have borne too much from such a wretch,” he 
said, “ leave him and let me protect you from this day 
forward.” 

“ No, no,” she replied, weakly enough because of her 
inward struggle. “ It cannot be.” 


A PRIVATE VISIT. 249 

“ It must be,” he answered determinedly. “ I know 
you care for me, and there is no woman in the world I 
love better than you.” 

“ I can’t help caring for you,” she replied ; ‘^you are 
the only friend I have in the world. I did wrong in 
coming here to-night, but I thought only of serving you. 
Surely you will not make me repent this act ? ” 

The agony of contending emotions found expression 
in her voice. He turned away, defeated by her appeal. 
“ I was mistaken,” he said ; “ I thought you cared for 
me, that you would be glad to escape from that beast.” 

“ He is my husband,” she said simply. 

Colonel Tarbert laughed aloud, feeling now assured 
of his triumph, and his voice sound^ as devilish 
nrockery in her ears. 

“Your husband,” he repeated. “Ho you know 
nothing of his past life ? ” 

“Nothing,” she answered, feeling scared by the 
question. 

“ Where did you first meet him ? ” 

“ In Wiltshire. He came to the great house of our 
village with some horses he had bought for the squire. 
I was a farmer’s daughter — his only child— and — ^and I 
married Grlender against my father’s wish, and I have 
been punished well.” 

“ Did you make no inquiries concerning his former 
life ? ” 

“ No. Loving him I trusted him.” 

“ Then I know more of him than you. His name is 
not Jacob Glender, and you are not his wife.” 

“You are mistaken,” she said, her face flushing 
scarlet ; “ we were married in the village church.” 

“ At the same time he had a wife living.” 

“ Is this true ? ” she asked, her heart throbbing with 
anxiety. “ Is this true, or do you wish to deceive me 
for your own ends ? Be merciful,” she continued im- 


250 A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

ploringly. I have done what lay in my power for 
you. I ask you in return to tell me the truth.” 

“ I solemnly swear Jacob Glender is a bigamist, and 
that you are not his wife. I can prove it if necessary,” 
he replied in an earnest tone. 

She believed his words. 

‘‘ Then,” she exclaimed, whilst a smile of exultation 
lighted up her face, “ I am free.” 

“ You are,” he answered. 

In another instant the light faded from her features, 
a wild troubled look came into her eyes, her head 
dropped on her breast. 

“ If,” she cried, “ I am not his wife, then what am 
I?” 

He answered, “ The woman I love best in the world.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 

One bleak, wet evening towards the end of March, 
Philip Amerton arrived from Paris at Charing Cross 
station. Through the blurred windows of his cab as 
he drove towards Kensington, he saw lines of dripping 
wayfarers passing under the glare of yellow street 
lamps and disappearing, phantom-like, into shadows 
beyond. Brilliant lights from shops flashed on him as 
he sped onwards : the hour sounding from a church 
clock, slowly and with muffled sounds seemed as the 
tolling of a passing bell. The sky was one mass of 
unbroken blackness, rain fell with a heavy, monotonous 
splash. 

It seemed to Amerton as if nature’s cheerless mood 
sympathized with his melancholy mind. Desolation 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 


251 


reigned within, dreariness without, darkness and des- 
pair above and below. 

Arriving at his house and entering the once familiar 
and now empty rooms, his keen sense of oppression 
increased. The days when he had lived here seemed 
long removed by years of pain. The change three 
months had wrought in him was great. Lines of care 
had marked his forehead ; weariness looked from his 
eyes; his hair, before just sprinkled with grey, was 
now white at the temples. All traces of youth had 
vanished. 

After a light dinner he flung himself listlessly on a 
couch in the study. Even this pleasant room, where 
so many creations of his brain had sprung into vigor- 
ous life and dwelt with him, where he had dreamt 
strange waking dreams, had welcomed hopes as 
pleasant guests, had peopled the air with anxious long- 
ings, now seemed desolate as a charnel house. The 
rows of familiar books on the shelves, friends who had 
invariably cheered him, were powerless to exercise 
their old charm. He turned from them with aversion. 

It was he who had changed, not they ; something 
had gone from his life, and the future could never be 
as the past. Could he but cast himself adrift from 
every association of the present and begin life anew, 
how firmly would he tread its road ; how different a 
course would he pursue. Aye, it was ever the same ; 
no man looks back upon his existence with satisfaction. 
Of the countless numbers who had risen from nothing- 
ness to return to oblivion, was there one who, if choice 
were given him, would tread the same path again ? 
But the way once begun must be continued. Was it 
only when born again, man might traverse a new 
course ? Mingling with such thoughts came a con- 
sciousness that Benoni was approaching ; and this 
belief growing clearer and more clear, he rose from 


252 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


the sofa, anxious and expectant. Before he had time 
to cross the floor the door opened softly and the mys- 
tic entered. 

Peace be on you,” he said in the dulcet tones of 
his passionless v^oice. 

Amerton made no immediate reply. A sense of 
anger rose in his heart against this man, who could 
have warned him of his trouble and was silent, who 
could have aided him in his search and was passive, 
who could have comforted him in his grief and was 
absent. Therefore he said, '‘You wish me peace 
whilst you know there is misery in my heart.” 

“ My friend,” Benoni answered gently, “ I would 
your fate had been other than it has been.” 

Amerton looked at him keenly. The soft lamplight 
fell upon the mystic, bringing the outlines of his 
shapely head and the curves of his robe into strong 
relief. In his face rested an expression of patient 
sorrow ; in his eyes, where the shadow of an older day 
lingered, dwelt tender compassion. Resentment waned 
in Philip’s mind. 

“ Why,” he asked reproachfully, “ did you desert 
me? You must have seen my trouble approaching 
and yet you spoke no warning word.” 

“That is true,” replied Benoni. “It was not per- 
mitted that I should serve you then ; to test your 
strength it was necessary you should bear the trial un- 
aided.” He seated himself on a low ottoman near 
Amerton, and continued ; “ When some years ago 

you came to me in Africa, and asked me to solve expe- 
riences which perplexed you, and later besought 
Amuni the Faithful One to show you the pathway 
leading towards light, you but obeyed a dictate of 
your nature impossible to resist. That within you 
urged you forward to seek the sacred mysteries of life 
and death. But these cannot be obtained by these 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 


253 


who are not prepared to endure with patience and 
grow strong in spirit. You have suffered and thus 
taken the first step towards the attainment of your 
desires.” 

But surely,” said Philip, “ you might have warned 
me.” 

“ I should have but inflicted additional pain on 
you.” 

“ Was there no escape ? ” 

‘‘ None indeed,” replied the mystic. 

“Then I was destined to meet humiliation and 
pain.” 

Benoni looked at him with mingled pity and aflfeo- 
tion in his gaze. 

“ A child,” he said in his low sonorous voice, “ is 
grieved for a broken toy or is humiliated by correc- 
tion.” 

“But you don’t compare my wrongs to a child’s 
grievances ? ” 

“ His sorrows are as real and bitter to him as your 
afflictions are to you. It is only when time has passed 
he reviews his distress with wonder, seeing the petti- 
ness of its cause. So will it be with you. Ten years 
hence you will regard this grief desolating your life 
with equanimity ; forty years later you will remember 
it with indifference as an item in your fate. Then 
shall you look back upon the brightness and darkness 
of your existence as one regards the lights and shadows 
chequering his pathway through woods in spring, 
How futile seem woe and joy, weighed with the con- 
sideration that all men are as sRadows that fade and 
as vapours that flee away.” 

Amerton could make no reply. 

“ Think, my friend,” continued the mystic, earnestly, 
“ of your existence but as a journey towards a goal, on 
which hardships must be suffered by the way. Y04 


2.54 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


are now bufc working out the fulfilment of your fate. 
Kemember, those who would ascend must suffer; 
affliction is the flame which purifies ; pain teaches 
compassion.” 

“ Have you known sorrows ? ” 

“ Who has not ? ” replied Benoni. “ Many and 
great were my griefs. Human nature is the same in 
every clime, in every age. I have tasted the sweetness 
of love and the bitterness of its betrayal. Friends who 
were the light of my life passed into other spheres, 
leaving me lone; those I had served with favours 
repaid me with ingratitude. But now have I risen 
above affliction and triumphed over pain. Misfortune 
cannot compass, distress overwhelm, nor disappoint- 
ment assail me, because the things of the world are as 
nought to my senses, and man’s life seems but a dream. 
Before this stage is reached affliction must have 
crucified the senses ; self must be conquered, slain and 
entombed.” 

Philip was silent, pondering on the words he had 
Heard ; then his thoughts gradually drifted towards his 
present grief, and he asked, “ Where is she, where is 
my wife ? ” 

“ Not fiir removed from you.” 

“ She is in London ?” 

“ Yes. A month since she parted from him who 
templed her to leave her home. She is oppressed by 
affliction because of her sin; her affection for you, 
blinded awhile by passion for another, is renewed, and 
her heart is turned towards you.” 

“ Then take me to her,” Philip cried, rising to his 
fieet. 

Benoni raised his hands significantly. 

' ‘t 1 his is cruel. Let me assure her I forgive her all ; 
|et me acknowledge the fault was mine,” he said in a 
voice full of suppressed feeling. 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 


255 


“ Affliction is wholesome/* 

“ Be human and have compassion on her, on me.** 

“My friend,” answered the mystic gently, “have 
patience.” 

Amerton walked up and down the room, not trusting 
himself to speak lest he might use words he would 
subsequently regret. 

Benoni surveyed him in silence for some seconds, 
then said, “ You have yet much to overcome before 
the power you seek is given you.” 

Amerton paused to hear; the fascination Benoni 
had ever exercised over him had lost none of its old 
force. 

“ Even now temptation threatens to turn you aside 
from the road you would tread. Beware. That grief 
has fallen on you should bring you gladness of spirit, 
for sorrow deepens the sources of man’s nature, widens 
the channels of his sympathies, softens and subdues 
his heart, fits him for a better and a purer life. My 
friend, the period of your probation has not yet passed. 
The heart must be withdrawn from desires of the 
senses. The cravings of your nature are as rungs in 
a ladder, which surmounted lead to celestial life.” 

Philip listened to him calmly. “ The path I would 
pursue is rugged indeed,” he said. 

“ Before have I reminded you ‘ narrow is the way.’ 
I came here to-day that you may be warned. Give 
heed to my words that your future may be glad. Bear 
your sorrow with patience ; subdue your desires with 
firmness, and all things you crave shall be yours. And 
now, my friend, must I depart. May peace reign in 
your heart.” 

The mystic folded his hands across his breast, bowed 
low, and quietly went his way. His words rang in 
Amerton’s ears; some fear of his own weakness rose 
phantom-like in the silence of his thoughts. Surely 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


^^4 

he would not turn back from the path he had begun 
to tread. Promises of mystic power and occult lore 
lured him onwards to regions of . mystery ; human 
affection and natural sympathies besought his return 
to earth ; torn by conflicting emotions he stood 
irresolute. Now had the hour come for his decision. 
He rose from his chair impatiently. The quiet of 
night, contrasting his internal conflict, made him ill 
at ease. A feeling of restlessness he was powerless to 
subdue gradually took possession of him, and though 
ph3^sically weary he knew repose was now impossible. 

He strode backwards and forwards, his pulse quicken- 
in g, wild thoughts surging through his brain. The 
restraint placed upon his movements by the limits of 
the room became unendurable. The very atmosphere 
seemed to stifle and oppress him, he fancied he could 
scarce breathe, he was tempted to cry aloud. 

Sitting down, he endeavoured to calm the feverish 
unrest besetting him, but in vain. The blood surged 
quickly through his veins, his temples throbbed, his 
hands trembled, the shaded lamp-light dazzled his 
sight, dim shadows in distant corners became tremu- 
lous with movement, he feared to turn suddenly lest 
his eyes might encounter some weird and horrible sight 
in progress of shaping itself from darkness, he dared 
not sit still, the air was filled with w’hispering voices 
w'hose messages he strove to comprehend. His senses 
grew dim to external objects only to perceive more 
plainly and hear more distinctly visions and sounds 
beyond the filmy boundary of this world ; the room, 
nay the earth sped round him, and for a second he was 
in profound darkness ; then with a sudden bound, he 
had escaped the trammels of self, and limitless space 
and happy radiance disclosed itself before him, teeming 
with millions of bodiless phantoms, of which he was 
one, like unto them* Countless words hung in air ; 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 257 

the earth in which his body rested was as a little globe 
low down in endless chaos; distance became annihi- 
lated at will ; freedom surrounded him ; music such as 
mortal ear had never heard surged in billows of sound 
across this shoreless sea of light. And above all was 
made manifest the awful and mystic presence of the 
imperishable Breath of Life, unseen, yet permeating 
all, guiding and governing in perfect harmony the 
worlds of spirit and matter, of thought and action. 

Through all was he conscious of his natural frame, 
to which he yet was bound ; and out of his connection 
with mortality came inexpressible fear. And as one 
drowning greatly struggles for life, so did he vigorously 
strive to regain his former condition. Then swiftly he 
passed through darkness back to earthly existence : 
soul and body became reunited, consciousness of his 
immediate surroundings returned. Feeling his way 
towards the window of his study, he threw up the sash 
and leaned forward ; coldidamp winds playing on his 
face restored him. 

The rain had ceased; rugged-edged clouds drifted 
hurriedly past a watery moon ; a clock at some distance 
struck ten. He resolved to leave the house ; fresh air 
and quiet would calm him ; he would mingle with 
darkness and lose himself; his feverish thoughts 
would find sympathy with the clouds fleeting in wild 
confusion into space. 

He closed the window, drew down the blind, and 
leaving the lamp alight hurried out into the night. 
Where he went he neither knew nor cared. The few 
persons he met seemed as phantoms looming before 
him, advancing, and passing into shade. Silence fell 
upon all things ; he walked as through an enchanted 
city ; the misty atmosphere was as a vapour created 
by a magic spell, making ail sights seem unreal ; the 
street lamps, glaring dimly through dense obscririty. 


253 


A MODERN MAGICIAN, 


were as spectral lights to which distance lent grotesque 
shapes and changeful effects. Once or twice voices and 
laughter of men and women near at hand reached him, 
and the sounds, following him as he sped, rang in his * 
ears as the jubilant mockeries of demons holding 
unholy revels. 

He had been walking for upwards of an hour, when 
fate guided him back to the spot from which he 
started. His pace had been rapid, and he felt his 
bodily fatigue must overcome his mental restlessness. 

If his jaded senses could but find oblivion in deep 
sleep, all would be well; his whole nature cried for 
rest, and peace seemed denied him. 

As he turned into the Campden Hill Road, the 
stealthy movement of a dark object arrested his atten- 
tion. For a moment he fancied his senses had betrayed 
him, but looking again he saw a woman’s figure 
wrapped in a black cloak, and even at that distance 
something in its outlines seemed strangely familiar to 
his sight. He paused in doubt and wonder. She 
whom he watched stood at the opposite side of his 
house, well sheltered by projecting trees, her head up- 
raised towards the dimly lighted window of his study. 
It was none other than his wife. She had not heard 
or seen him advance. He gazed at her with every 
nerve strained. Forgetful of all else, it seemed to 
him as if they two stood alone in all the world. The 
wrong she had dealt, the misery she had caused him 
were forgotten ; he but remembered she had loved him 
once. No thought of resentment came to the surface 
of his mind ; his, he felt assured, was the blame. 

After long search and sorrow, it was strange indeed 
they should meet here on the threshold of their home. 
He never removed his eyes from her, lest she should 
vanish, and he was determined they should part no 
more. For a while she steadily watched the lighted 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 


259 


window, then bowed her head ; he fancied a tremulous 
movement shook her frame, the sound of a sob reached 
his ear. In a little while she looked upwards again, 
and then moved slowly away in an opposite direction. 
With many feelings struggling for mastery he followed, 
and coming close whispered her name. 

A low cry broke from her lips ; she had recognized 
his voice ; she spoke no word or made no sign, but 
hastened her pace as if she would flee. Philip came 
beside her, and gently placed one hand on her arm. 

“Miriam,” he said, “ don’t you know me ? ” 

She stood still, unable to stir ; he could not see her 
face because of her heavy veil, but he felt she was 
struggling with herself. In a second she had mastered 
her voice, and he heard her say : 

“ Don’t speak to me. Forgive my coming near your 
home. I promise you shall never see me again.” 

“ And I promise,” he said, sadly yet determinedly, 
“ I shall never lose sight of you more.” 

She was silent a moment, not understanding the 
drift of his meaning. “ No,” she replied, “ I have 
severed myself from my past for ever. Let me endure 
the misery I deserve.” 

“ We both have erred, and we both have suffered,” 
he said. “ I have acted wrongly by you, and I have 
been punished.” 

“ Have you suffered because of me ? ” she asked 
quickly. She turned towards him as if she would look 
into his face and read the confirmation of his words 
there, but they stood in shadow, and she could not see. 
His voice, however, told her much : he had changed. 

“ It was I who inflicted the wrong, and the penalty 
should be mine alone,” she said. 

“ Do you not know,” he asked, “ I have searched for 
you from the day you departed ? Only to-night have 
I returned, and I find vou.” 


260 


A MODEKN MAGICIAN. 


“ Searched for me ? ” she replied, as if a revelation 
flashed on her. 

“You are jet mj wife, and having done wrong I 
hold it my duty to win you back to right, rescue you 
from sin, shelter you from the world, share with you 
my home.” 

“And you,” she said with a world of self-reproach in 
her voice, “ you are the man whom I deserted, miser- 
able dupe that I have been.” Her voice ended in a 
sob, and she cried bitterly, “ Your words,” she con- 
tinued, “are more than I can bear. I felt I had 
become a burden to your life, that you had made a 
mistake in marrying me, and I fancied you would be 
glad to have an opportunity of freeing yourself from 
me. 1 left you, but soon woke from my dream, and I 
have since been punished for my guilt. I don’t shrink 
from my chastisement. That I have spoken to you 
now is more than I deserve. But we shall never meet 
again. I intended to leave England, change my name, 
and in a new land begin life afresh. I could not 
depart without seeing you once more, and thought I 
might one night watch you unobserved as you entered 
or left your home. I have come here regularly for 
weeks. To-night for the first time I saw a light in 
your room, and I waited, hoping I might see your 
shadow on the blind. I have avoided since my return 
all those I once knew, and did not know where you 
were.” 

“ I have been seeking you through Italy.” 

“ Since awakening from my evil dream,” she said, 
“ you have been ever in my mind. For I began to 
feel I had, in assuring myself I freed you from a 
burden, but blinded my conscience to the depths of 
my wickedness. I became aware right should never 
come through wrong. I wanted to tell you of my re- 
pentance, and if 1 had caused you pain to beg forgive- 


PHILIP AMERTON RETURNS. 261 

ness. I thought if there was truth in the teachings of 
Benoni you must know my feelings, and one evening 
my heart went out to you, and I fancied you were 
conscious of all I would say.” 

‘‘ I saw you, Miriam, plain as I see you now, but 
when I cried out you vanished.” 

“ This is strange indeed,” she said ; and then re- 
membering herself, added, “ Can you forgive me ? ” 

“ I have forgiven you long ago. The conclusions you 
drew regarding me were just. I imagined I had made 
a mistake in marrying. My punishment came in your 
desertion, for on your departure I found I had loved you 
all the while.” 

‘‘ This is too much happiness for me to hear,” she 
said gently, “I have never been worthy of you; am 
least worthy of you now.” 

‘‘ Which of us has not erred ? ” he asked ; then added, 
“ Come back to me.” 

Of all reproaches she had felt since leaving him, that 
conveyed in his words was hardest to hear, bitterest to 
bear. He, indeed was brave, but heaven would streng- 
then her to act likewise and refuse a generosity which 
would shadow his life. 

“ No, Philip,” she answered, “ we must part. I have 
brought shame, and, as you tell me, sorrow upon you, 
audit were better the living memory of your wrongs 
was not for ever before you. I understand your self- 
sacrifice, but I shall not profit by it. You will never 
see me again. Grod bless you and make you happy, 
dear. And now good-bye.” 

She moved away quickly, but he stretched out his 
arm and held her. “ You shall not go,” he said 
gravely. 

She broke into a storm of tears. When she had 
recovered a little he continued : 

“ You are still my wife, and I love you yet. The 


202 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


past shall be forgotten from this hour. Ketum with 
me to our home.” 

“What will the world say?” she asked, her resolu- 
tion giving way before his stronger determination, 

“That matters little to me. If I grieve, will the 
world console me? If I am lonely, will the world 
nomfort me ? If I suffer misfortune, will the world 
pity me ? ” 

“ 0 noble heart,” she cried, “ how have I wronged 
you.” 

“ Our lives once united, must not be severed. From 
this day shall we begin existence anew, and from ex- 
periences of the past strive to guide our future.” 

She bowed her head in silencu-and consent. 


CHAPTER XXL 

♦ 

WHAT HAVE I DONE? 

It happened on a certain evening towards the end of 
May, Colonel Tarbert dined alone at his club. He 
had seated himself before a little table in a snug corner 
of the dining-room, where he was likely to be most free 
from observation and secure from disturbance. The 
choice dinner he had ordered and eaten, the rare wines 
he had selected and drank helped to make him satisfied 
with himself and content with the world at large. 
Dessert being finished he lay back in his chair, his 
broad chest expanded, his hands buried in his trousers 
pockets, his thick lips parted in a sneer. 

Man knows no more pleasant task than that of 
crediting himself with cleverness and congratulating 
himself on success ; and Colonel Tarbert was just now 
engaged in this delightful occupation. It was a source 


WHAT HAVE I DONE? 


2C3 


of pride and glory to him, he had outwitted Jacob 
Glender in the game that sharper would have played. 

Through a stratagem unsuspected by his rival, he 
had gained the letter which would have, he thought, 
confirmed Lord Kerry in his belief of the forgery, the 
colonel being unaware of the entries in his father’s 
diary which already pointed towards such a conclusion. 
Moreover he had revenged himself on G lender by 
taking from him the woman he had called his wife. 
This latter act heightened the pleasure of the former ; 
endowed the mere fact of obtaining the letter, with a 
tinge of adventure, if not of romance. He emptied his 
champagne glass and lit a cigar with a keen sense of 
internal satisfaction. Lately his luck on the turf being 
good, he had been enabled to pay his most pressing debts 
and renew bills for the remainder. Then news had 
reached him that Lord Kerry had suffered from another 
paralytic stroke vifhich placed his life in greater peril 
than before. The children of Israel having caught 
rumour of this intelligence, were more liberal in their 
dealings with the colonel. Altogether he felt content 
with his present lot, and hopeful of his future life. 

The only shadow which crossed his path, was that 
cast by the figure of Jacob Glender, but even this by 
no means affrighted him. The fellow was certainly, 
Colonel Tarbert considered, in his power ; he could at 
any moment by exposing his past life, and denouncing 
him as a returned convict, ruin his career as a sporting 
prophet. Men, no matter how unscrupulous them- 
selves, generally shrink from a gaol-bird. But this 
would be an extreme measure which he hoped he might 
not be forced to take. 

Since the evening on which the letter had been 
recovered, he had not seen Glender, having taken all 
possible care to avoid him, and to secure from his 
knowledge the home of her he called his wife. The 


264 


A MODEKN MAGICIAN. 


district Colonel Tarbert bad selected for his residence 
was respectable Wimbledon. Here under the name of 
Captain Turner, he had taken apartments for Mrs 
Turner in a comfortable old-fashioned mansion, se- 
cluded from the high road and removed from the track 
of London holiday-makers. Bearing Jacob Glender in 
mind, it had been the colonel’s habit to avoid the 
vicinity of Wimbledon as much as possible during day- 
light, and select such routes on his way thither, as he 
considered least frequented. Notwithstanding these 
precautions, it had seemed on several occasions he had 
been watched. Once indeed when he had taken the 
train from Waterloo Station, a man, who from his dress 
and appearance was evidently connected with the turf, 
entered his carriage and alighted with him at Wimble- 
don. This would not have aroused Colonel Tarbert’s 
suspicions if he had not subsequently observed the 
same individual in his wake. He therefore took a 
route different from that he had intended following, 
avoided the house where Mrs. Turner awaited him, and 
after a short walk returned to town. 

He would have felt more at ease had Glender come 
in fury to demand satisfaction in pounds, shillings and 
pence ; but with the passage of time Colonel Tarbert’s 
apprehension became quieted, and he strove to persuade 
himself Glender in no way associated him with the 
woman’s disappearance. Whatever uneasiness he had 
once felt, was set completely at rest to-night. He had 
dined well and drank freely, and his digestion, which 
he was pleased to call his conscience, was in excellent 
condition. 

“ There is only one thing wanting to complete the 
happiness of the just-dined,” he thought, as he pushed 
back his chair. “ The knowledge that poor Kerry was 

safe in Heaven or ” and he paused. “ If only I had 

plenty of money,” he continued, when the grim smile 


WHAT HAVE I DOIS^E f 


265 


accompanying his last train of ideas had passed away, 

“ I would become a respectable man; I’m just fitted for 
the role, for I’m stout and shall soon be quite bald. 
Then I would marry a virtuous woman if I could find 
one, and play the part of a model husband on the latest 
principles.” He concluded with a vicious sneer that 
broadened to an ugly laugh. 

He thought of all that should be in the future 
time when he sat in the Upper House, and out of 
the plenitude of his wisdom legislated for his troubled 
country; when the world courteously forgetting the 
shady side of his past life would of its own free 
will endow him with many virtues ; when prudent 
matrons would offer him a selection of their daugh- 
ters for his bride ; when the church militant would 
speak of him with reverence as a man in whose 
power heaven had placed the disposal of fat livings; 
when, if he were ambitious, his gracious sovereign 
would sanction his holding some high office of 
state. 

He laughed aloud at the pictures rising before his 
mental view, and, hearing him, one waiter assured 
another in a confidential whisper the colonel had taken 
too much wine. Unaware of the observation, he con- 
tinued his meditations. “ Wonder,” said he, “ if Kerry 
will leave his money in the funds to that brat Ulic — 
hang him. If he does it will make some difference to 
me. I shan’t be able to squeeze much out of. these 
Irish beggars now they have shown fight, but the ^ 
Westmoreland tenants are all right, and he can’t 
deprive me of the entailed estates. Kerry may go off 
any hour, the sooner the better say I, and some fine 
morning I shall awake to find myself a peer of the 
realm and a wealthy man.” 

So saying he flung away his cigar, and looked at his 
watch. It was eight o’clock. ‘‘ Poor little woman,” he 


2G6 


A MODEEN MAGICIAN. 


muttered, “ I haven’t seen her for five days. Waiter, 
call a cab.” 

In a few seconds he was driving towards Waterloo 
station, where he took a train just starting for Putney. 
Alighting here he walked through the village and 
up the hill, where lamps gleamed through the 
dining-room windows of genteel villas brave in the 
adornment of stucco porches and plaster pillars. The 
atmosphere of the railway carriage had been sultry, 
and the fresh breath of country air, heavy with the 
scent of lilac and laburnum, refreshed him. Evening 
light had faded, but the sky was clear and starful, and 
the soft grey gloaming could scarce be described as 
darkness. The change from glare and noise to shadow 
and peace unconsciously affected him. 

“ I fancy,” he said, as he entered a pathway crossing 
Wimbledon Common in the direction of the house he 
sought, “ I fancy life in the country would be enough 
to make a fellow sentimental — imagine a hardened old 
sinner like me in a tender mood,” he sneered at 
himself, laughing at the picture he conjured. He had 
left the high road with its line of yellow lamps and 
sounds of human life well behind him, and had almost 
reached the centre of the common. Beyond, the pale 
grey deepened to obscurity, and loneliness brooded 
undisturbed. His thoughts still centred round himself. 
Ko compassion for the woman he had ruined; no 
remorse for the men he had wronged ; no regret for the 
evil life he had led rested with him ; his mind bad no 
concern with the past, but was busy with the future. 
He wondered how he might free himself from Glender’s 
wife when in a little while the novelty of her beauty 
had grown monotonous, and he had become weary of 
her. Would she return to Glender as Miriam had to 
Amerton ; would she take her dismissal indifferently as 
others had; would she seek death like one he had 


TV HAT HAVE I DONE? 


267 


known ? In this gathering darkness rose before him 
the face of a woman, almost a child in years, with 
features fixed and staring eyes, with stiffened fingers 
clutching river-bed weeds, and sunny hair smeared 
with slime. 

The sight was ghastly ; he strode forward quickly as 
if hurrying from its presence, and as he did, sounds of 
hasty footsteps treading the path behind him fell 
ominously on his ears. For a second he 'paused to 
assure himself he was not deceived, and a foreboding 
that was almost fear fell upon him. But this he would 
not admit even to himself, nor would he hasten his 
pace. The footsteps grew heavier as they approached 
nearer, until being quite close he turned suddenly 
round and paused. Even in the uncertain light he 
recognized at a glance the square-built, low-sized 
figure of Jacob Glender. The latter was not so certain 
of Colonel Tarbert’s identity, but, to make sure, ad- 
vanced and peered into his face, so closely that the 
colonel withdrew a step to avoid the fumes of whiskey 
coming strong and rank from Glender’s warm breath. 

It’s you, is it ? ” he said in a low, angry voice, 
panting from excitement and the rapidity of his walk. 

“It’s I,” replied the colonel, in his coolest tones, 
buttoning his short gray jacket, fixing his bat firmly on 
his head, and watching the figure before him as if 
expecting an attack. 

“ I’ve waited and watched for you many a day and 
night,” Glender said. 

“ Very good of you, I’m sure.” 

“ Have done with that jargon ; the time has past 
when I endured it. Answer me, where’s my wife ? ” 

“Don’t you think it rather late to make that 
enquiry ? You should have sought her when you were 
liberated from prison.” 

“Damn you,” answered Glender, with an effort fo 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


suppress his rage. “You know who I mean. Where’s 
the woman you stole from me ? ” 

“You pay too high a compliment to my superior 
fascinations.” 

“ ril have my answer, or 

“ Or return to spend the remainder of your days in a 
convict prison.” 

The words had scarce left his lips when Glender 
sprang upon him with the fury of a beast, gripping his 
throat in an iron grasp. Colonel Tarbert seized his 
arms, and with all his might strove to fling him to the 
earth. But rage lent force to his assailant, and with 
every sinew strained and muscle strengthened, with 
breath withheld and feet firmly planted, both struggled 
for some minutes in a fight each felt must be for life 
or death. At length the colonel slipped on the soft 
grass, and Glender, seeing his chance, with one effort 
in which his whole strength was concentrated, flung 
his antagonist on the ground. Delirious from victory, 
craving for revenge, wild from fury, mad with hate, he 
threw himself upon Tarbert, and fastening both hands 
round his throat, pressed his thumbs with might upon 
his windpipe. The prostrate man struggled with all 
his main, desperately kicking his feet in the air, striv- 
ing with futile hands to unlock the deadly grasp 
fastened on him, and by fierce efforts of strength, lifting 
his body again and again from the earth, on which it 
fell with dull thuds. Glender never loosened his hold, 
never moved save to plant both knees upon his victim’s 
breast, pinning him to the ground, swearing and 
threatening deliriously in a paroxysm of blind passion, 
heedless that the colonel’s efforts to free himself grew 
less and less violent, and suddenly ceased. His rage 
had not exhausted itself before he felt a thick warm 
liquid trickling on his hands. Then he instantly re- 
leased his grasp with a shudder, and getting on his 


WHAT HAVE I DONE F 


2C9 


feet, fell back a pace from the dark, pulseless mass 
lying on the grass. But this form, though now free, 
moved neither limb nor muscle, nor uttered word nor 
sigh, nor gave sign of life, at which the hate and fury 
burning in Glender’s heart died out swiftly, making 
room for nameless horror and grim fear. The sweat of 
his struggle froze, and the hot blood beating in his 
veins turned cold. 

“ Gret up,” he said in a low hoarse voice, " get up.” 
But though he spoke, he felt a terrible conviction no 
words could ever again reach the man he addressed. 

The seconds which passed seemed ages ; he knew not 
how to act, but gazed round him, where all was darkness 
and stillness, and then upwards, where the stars were 
shining like so many flaming witnesses of his deed. 

Despite the repugnance and dread he felt to approach 
that motionless figure, some inclination, powerless to 
conquer, prompted him to draw near and assure himself 
if life were extinct; if indeed he had added the crime 
of murder to the black record of his days. And he who 
but a few minutes before had been careless who heard 
the tone of his voice, the force of his struggle, now 
listened with a beating heart to every sound borne on 
the lonely night. 

Far away on the high road wheels rattled over a 
stony track ; further yet, the crack of a carter’s whip 
rent the silence ; a house dog barked at some passing 
tramp ; and close by a little stream babbled on its way ; 
otherwise all was still. Glender went down on his knees 
and fearfully crept towards the body, slowly as if expect- 
ing Tarbert to rise and avenge himself; tremulously 
because dreading the quiet form would never stir 
again. 

Coming close beside it, he listened with suspended 
breath and strained nerves, with an anxiety that 
brought perspiration once more to his forehead, striving 


270 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


with all his might, hoping with all his soul to heal 
some movement of life from this inert object; but it 
gave no sound, or made no motion. A terrible stillness 
seeming to emanate from this body, crept over the 
earth ; and a great fear, confused, but dread, fell upon 
Glender. Loth to abandon all hope, he would fain have 
felt if this man’s heart still beat, yet dared not touch 
that dark outline because of some nameless horror and 
grim repugnance possessing him. At length, overcom- 
ing these feelings, he stretched forward one hand, slowly 
and nervously, towards the colonel’s breast, but with- 
drew it with a shudder; his fingers had lodged in a 
little pool of blood that trickling from the dead man’s 
nostrils, down his chin and neck, had soaked through 
his shirt and lodged upon his breast. Glender, yet 
upon his knees, flung himself from the body and wiped 
his hand, smeared with clotted gore, again and again 
upon the grass, cursing his fate and uttering male- 
dictions on the dead man lying there in darkness. 

Suddenly he seemed to stand upon the brink of 
chaos, seeing no escape from its depths. Doom con- 
fronted him; justice tracked and pursued him as he 
fled through the world ; the voice of blood crying for 
vengeance shrieked in his ears. Against the blackness 
of night rose the horrible picture of a gibbet painted 
in flame, from which a short, broad-shouldered figure, 
nerveless, lifeless, ghastly, dangled in mid-air. 

Had it even come to this with him ? Would such a 
fate close his miserable existence ? Had heaven no 
pity, man no kindness for him because of the deeds he 
had done ? He clenched his strong, square hands, and 
ground his teeth. Desperation banished fear, remorse, 
repugnance. 

“ Damn you,” he cried, stretching one hand in the 
direction of the bleeding corpse ; “ you have trapped 
me into betraying my secret, made me your tool, stolen 


WHAT HAVE I DONEF 


271 


my wife, but I have repaid you. Clever as you are, 
you have lost the game. I have but taken the justice 
the world would refuse me. Why shouldn't I live ? 
Dead men tell no tales; here is no witness of mv 
deed.” 

He sprang to his feet, filled with sudden hope and 
firm resolution ; but though he would have moved 
away, he felt powerless to stir from the spot until he 
had obeyed an impulse too strong for resistance. He 
listened again ; only for the stream murmuring in its 
course to the sea all was still. Then he knelt down 
near the corpse once more. 

mu^t see him,” he said. ‘‘We shall never meet 
again, unless in hell, and I’ll have a last look at him.” 

But though he strained his sight, he could not dis- 
cern the colonel’s features ; a damp mist had slowly 
risen from earth, and as a. great pall covered all things ; 
stars were blotted from the sky. Disappointed, Glender 
mechanically put his hands in his pockets, and pro- 
duced a box of matches. Fearing the attention a 
light might cause, and the danger it might prove to 
him, he hesitated a moment before striking a match ; 
but the fascination produced by the thought of seeing 
the dead man face to face overcame all caution. Hav- 
ing searched 'around and found his hat, which had 
fallen in the fatal struggle, he struck a match within it, 
and so shaded, held it above the lifeless form : then, 
not without hesitation, looked in its face. 

The feeble glare reflected itself in the grey, glazed 
pupils of the protruding eyes, staring wildly, horribly, 
fixedly into the pitiless skies. The murderer could not 
remove his own from them, but with suspended breath 
gazed at his victim until the light, burning down, 
dropped into the little pool of blood on the dead man’s 
chest, and with a splutter was extinguished. 

Only then was Glender able to avert his head. 


272 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ Some devil has prompted me to this madness,” he 
muttered, ‘‘ that the sight might haunt me to the last 
moment of my life.” 

He rose hurriedly, and rushed swiftly through the 
night as if pursued by the terrible vision of those 
glaring eyes. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A TERRIBLE CHARGE. 

< 

The current of Philip Amerton’s life had, since his 
reconciliation with his wife, flowed on in placid con- 
tentment, if not in happiness. The past lay behind 
him, fateful, dark, and sorrowful, from which he 
resolutely turned towards the future, determined to 
fulfil his duty by the woman whose existence he had 
voluntarily bound with his own. 

Too manly to seek petty revenge, too generous to 
inflict pain, no word of his had ever reminded her of 
his great wrong and her past error. But with her the 
memory of that fatal step dwelt continually. Her old 
brightness and vivacity had vanished, leaving her 
mental life in shadow and gloom. Sensitive to the 
censure of a world which blamed her, not that she had 
strayed from the perfect path, but rather that her 
departure had been taken in the light of day, she 
shrank from contact with society. 

Those who in the past had called themselves her 
dearest friends, knowing from private experience the 
enormity of sin, were shocked she had yielded to its 
ways. Had she continued the life to which temptation 
had allured her, society would have rested satisfied, 
slept as soundly, fluttered as gaudily, prayed as 


A TERRIBLE CHARGE. 


273 


devoutly as before; but that she should strive to 
retrace her one unhappy step, to range herself amongst 
the immaculate wives of her acquaintance, was a 
grievance it could not endure with equanimity. The 
Jews of old, conscious of their guilt, forbore casting the 
first stone upon a fallen woman, but our modem 
Pharisees, more brazen in hypocrisy than their pre- 
decessors, know no mercy ; for in denouncing vice, 
they strive to cover themselves with virtue. 

Some there were, pure in thought, compassionate in 
deed, who sought this sorrow-stricken and repentant 
woman, and taking her to their hearts welcomed her 
back to the better life from which she had momentarily 
strayed. Foremost amongst these was G-al Alex, who, 
by gentle sympathy and kindly words, brought balm to 
the lonely woman in this period of her life. 

Comfort was indeed little known to Philip Amerton’s 
wife, and could those who reviled her have heard the 
self-reproaches she uttered, seen the tears she shed, 
they would possibly have spared her many bitter 
censures. Through the lonely hours of day and silent 
watches of night remorse visited her as a phantom 
from which she had neither power nor desire to escape. 
Had her husband taunted her with her shame, 
reproached her with his misery, she could have better 
borne his words than the thoughtful gentleness with 
which he treated her. A hundred times she would 
have flung herself at his feet and with tears of repent- 
ance and words of grief have relieved her feelings, but 
that he, in what he deemed mercy, had forbidden all 
reference to the past, and she feared to recall the 
sorrow he would fain forget. 

And through her grief a new soul seemed born in 
her, which changed her life without and within ; for 
with the advent of serious thoughts and regretful feel- 
ings came a light in her eyes which they before had 


274 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


lacked. She had tasted forbidden fruit, learned the 
bitter knowledge of good and evil, and the world could 
be the same to her nevermore. And because of all she 
had endured in awakening to her shame, the buoyant 
health she once enjoyed departed from her. Gradually 
the colour faded from her cheeks, strength deserted 
her, and a condition of nervousness, which gradually 
sapped vitality, seized possession of her. At Philip’s 
request she had consulted a physician who prescribed 
rest and change ; but the latter she was unwilling to 
seek, and the former was impossible for her to obtain. 

Meanwhile Amerton took up his work long set aside, 
and by this means sought and found absorption from 
remembrances. The subtle link of sympat% missing 
during the first months of his married life had been 
forged in the potent fire of suffering and now united 
his wife to him. By degrees they had come to look 
hopefully forward to a future when, their recent wound 
being healed by time, they might begin existence anew 
in another land. Their interests and happiness were 
now identical; time might bring them forgetfulness 
and peace. 

On the morning succeeding Colonel Tarbert’s murder 
they were seated at breakfast. Through the open 
windows came a sight of newly budded trees and sounds 
of birds’ songs heralding summer time. 

“ You are better to day ? ” said Philip, interroga- 
tively. 

“ 1 am,” she replied, anxious to satisfy him, though 
not quite certain she spoke truthfully. 

“When I returned from my walk you were asleep, 
and I didn’t wake you to say good-night.” 

“ I wish you had,” she said. 

“Why?’’ he asked. 

“You would have driven some troubled dreams to 
flight.” 


A TKREIBLE CHAEGE. 


m 


“ 1 thought you slept tranquilly and, knowing how 
valuable rest is to you, I stole from your room again.” 

“ What time did you return ? ” 

“A little while after midnight. The air was cool 
and I walked tow*ards St. Paul’s that I might see the 
great dome looming against star light. When the sky 
is clear the effect is fine, as you will see when you grow 
well. Then tempted by the profound quietness of the 
city, I wandered up and down its streets, a few hours 
before a scene of noise and confusion, but now silent 
almost as a grave-yard.” 

“ I have never seen the city by night.” 

“Few Londoners have. To me it is one of the most 
interesting sights of which we can boast. You re- 
member what Lord Macaulay says about the New 
Zealander sitting on a broken arch of London Bridge 
sketching the ruins of St. Paul’s. Well, I wondered 
last night if changeful fate would ever lay London 
desolate.” 

“ Some inhabitant of Babylon may have made the 
same surmises concerning his city ages before its 
destruction. All things are possible.” 

“ But I hope no man will know such a possibility 
until chaos has come again.” 

At this moment they were interrupted by the 
entrance of a servant, who, addressing her master, said 
a gentleman wished to see him on business. 

“ Did he give you his name ? ” Philip enquired. 

“ No sir. He first asked, if you were, at home, and 
then said he wanted to see you.” 

“ Probably a printer coming to talk about proofs,” he 
said to his wife, then added to the servant, “ Show him 
into the study and say I shall be with him in a moment.” 

The study was separated from the breakfast room by 
folding doors and a heavy curtain, which hung across 
the portal. As Amerton stepped into the room, he left 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


-2ir6 

the door ajar, hut drew the portihre behind him. He 
was astonished to see Inspector Collins, whom he ad- 
vanced to meet ; the gravity of the man’s manner and 
repressed expression of his face chilled Amerton im- 
mediately. 

“I have called on very serious business, sir,” said the 
officer, ignoring Philip’s invitation to be seated. 

“ Serious business — with me ? ” 

“ Yes, and no one wishes more honestly you may 
come out of it safely, but I must do my duty, no 
matter how painful, and I now arrest you on the charge 
of murder.” 

“ Murder ? ” repeated Philip, scarce comprehending 
the full sense of the word, and feeling sick at its 
mention. Some terrible mistake had been made. 

‘‘ Yes, sir, for the murder of Colonel Tarbert.” 

“ Grood God, what is this you say.” 

“ A man was found strangled on Wimbledon Common 
early this morning ; his watch, rings, purse and papers 
were found on the body ; the latter led to the discovery 
of his identity.” 

Philip felt stunned ; horror fell upon him ; after a 
moment’s silence he said, ‘‘ Why should this concern 
me ? ” 

“ As the injury he did you is well-known, suspicion 
falls upon you, sir.” The Inspector had not concluded 
his sentence when a dull thud, as of a fallen body, was 
heard from the next room. Philip rushed towards the 
curtain and, drawing it back, saw his wife lying in- 
sensible on the floor. In a second he was beside her, 
and at first so white was her face, so motionless her 
limbs, he believed the words she overheard had killed 
her. Eaising her gently he carried her to a sofa, 
calling on the Inspector to ring for her maid. In his 
suspense and fright he forgot the terrible blow just 
fallen on himself. 


A TERRIBLE CIIARaE. 


277 


Miinites that seemed hours to him passed before he 
saw the blood creep slowly back to her face, noted the 
breath come feebly from her lips. And when at last 
her eyes opened they met his with a dazed look that 
slowly dawned to recognition ; then catching sight of 
the Inspector, she shuddered and closed her lids again. 
The officer withdrew to the study, becoming aware of 
which, Miriam bade her maid leave likewise. Then 
bursting into tears she sobbed apd cried in a wild 
hysterical outburst of grief. Philip put his arms 
around her, but did not strive to interrupt this outcome 
of feeling until it had almost subsided. 

“ You have overheard the Inspector’s words ? ” he 
asked. 

“Yes, yes, and oh, Philip,” she whispered tremu- 
lously, “ you are innocent of this charge.” 

“ God knows I am,” he replied. 

“ I don’t doubt it, dear ; but how can you look at 
me, speak to me, touch me, I who have brought such 
misery on your life. Would to God I had died the 
most terrible of deaths before we met.” 

Still with his arms around her, without anger in his 
heart, without reproach in his eyes, he answered, “All 
men have their crosses to bear.” 

“ !£ver gentle and kind,” she cried out ; “ but I know 
this blow is but the bitter punishment of my sin. I 
should welcome it were it ten times as heavy, if my 
sufferings could save you. But that you whose life I 
have crossed and ruined should be pursued with dis- 
grace is more than I can bear. Why do you not curse 
and leave me for ever ; why do you not hate and kill 
me ; ah, if I only had the courage I would rid you and 
myself of the miserable burden of my life.” 

And again she cried as if her heart would break, 
shrinking from his touch, and burying her face in the 
pillows of the sofa. He knew not what to say that 


278 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

might calm her, but sat there beside her waiting until 
the crisis of this grief had passed. 

“Listen, Miriam,” he said at length. “This charge 
against me being false, cannot continue. My innocence 
must soon be proved to the satisfaction of the world. 
I did not even will the death of this man who wronged 
us both most grievously ; no doubt he who killed him 
will soon be discovered.” 

“Ah,” she replied, “you talk lightly of the charge 
to pacify me. And it seems bitter and cruel that now, 
when I would gladly die to save }ou from pain and 
misery or prove my love and gratitude, this fresh shame 
should fall upon you through me. Oh, my love, my 
love,” she cried out, “how have I wronged you, how 
have I made you suffer ! Will neither the grief nor 
remorse that eat my heart day and night help to make 
atonement for my past ? ” 

He could make no response, though he felt his heart 
wrenched by her sorrow. Inspector Collins in the next 
room, noting the silence and endeavouring to profit by 
it, coughed loudly and advanced to the door. 

“ One moment,” said Philip, and the Inspector again 
withdrew. 

“ You are going,” Miriam said wildly, sitting up and 
clutching her husband’s arm with both hands, “ You 
are going but not to — surely not to ” 

“ No,” he answered, “ not to prison. Don’t excite 
yourself, dear. I appear before the magistrate, bail is 
given for my reappearance when required, and I shall 
return here again.” 

“When, this evening — to-night, don’t deceive me, 
Philip ; it would be false kindness.” 

“ I shall probably be back in a couple of hours.” 

A new thought flashing through her mind, she 
started suddenly to her feet. 

“ May I go with you ? ” she asked. 


A TKRllIBLE CHAUGK 


279 

“ No, no, you must stay here and strive to agitate 
yourself as little as possible. Before leaving the house 
I shall send a telegram to Gal Alex asking her to come 
and stay with you whilst I’m away. I won’t even say 
good-bye,” he added hurriedly, “ only au revoir” and 
bending down he kissed her, and with a heavy heart 
left the room. 

Accompanied by Inspector Collins he entered a cab 
and drove towards the Hammersmith police court. As 
they proceeded the officer said : 

“ I must give you the usual caution, sir, not to say 
anything that may incriminate yourself.” 

“ Thank you,” answered Philip, “ so long as I speak 
the truth I cannot do that.” 

“ If you can prove an alibi by stating where you 
spent the last twenty-four hours, the charge so far as 
you are concerned is at an end.” 

“ That will be impossible for me. I passed the 
early part of last night walking about the city alone ; 
when I returned home it was late, the servants were in 
bed and my wife asleep.” ^ . 

“Then, sir, I had better warn you, I think your 
position is uncommonly dangerous.” 

“ How can it be when I am innocent ? ” 

“ Consider the circumstances and you will see. 
Colonel Tarbert wronged you ; you sought our aid in 
tracing him, and left England for months to follow 
him ” 

“ Not for the purpose of revenging myself, but of 
rescuing my wife.” 

“ That may be : the fact remains you followed, but 
did not find him. You returned to England, so did 
he. You spent the early part of a certain night out 
of your home and alone, next morning Colonel Tarbert 
is found murdered.” 

“ You put the case plainly, and I see circumstantial 


280 ' 


A MODERN MAOIGIAN. 


evidence seems against me,” replied Philip, a sense of 
danger dawning on him for the first time. 

“ It does, sir,” replied the Inspector. 

“ And I am innocent,” said Amerton. 

After this conversation both remained silent, each 
absorbed by his own thoughts. “ Surely,” said Philip 
to himself, “ Benoni, who can penetrate the surface of 
men’s minds and read the secrets of women’s hearts, 
can discover the murderer and set me before the world 
guiltless.” But the consideration of the mystic’s dis- 
appearance on an occasion when he looked to him for 
help, rose before him and weighted him with doubt. 
And he knew not whether to hope or fear. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

BENONI’S HELP. 

Philip, after a considerable delay in the police court at 
Hammersmith, was liberated on bail. As he drove 
homewards he could hear the vendors of early after- 
noon papers crying in shrill voices : “ Dreadful murder 
on Wimbledon Common : arrest of a well-known 
author.” He listened without change of feeling to 
the announcements, for it seemed to him he had no 
concern with the charge, that he was not the man at 
whom circumstantial evidence pointed as the perpetra- 
tor of this crime. 

But if, he thought, the law claimed his life in atone- 
ment for the murder, then would he, without protest 
or sorrow, lay down the burden of his existence. Joy 
or grief, hope or despair, would have no power hence- 
forth to touch him ; he believed indifference to all 
things had seared his senses ; that he could be the 
sport of his own emotions no longer. No resentment 


BENONI’S HELP. 


281 


at the fate 'which brought this disgrace upon him rose 
in his mind ; no anger that the story of his domestic 
life would become an oft-told tale to excite interest or 
elicit pity, remained with him. He was dead to all 
feelings, and could suffer no more. 

On arriving at his home he found his wife with Gal 
Alex. She had started from her place on the sofa on 
hearing the roll of his cab wheels, and awaited him at 
the door of the dining-room, her face flushed, her 
limbs trembling from nervous excitement. She flung 
her arms around him, and he led her into the room. 

“You have come back, dear,” she said, “but oh, 
how long you have been away. I counted the hours 
and minutes of youi absence. They knew you were 
innocent of that terrible deed, and have set you free. 
Tell me all, Philip,” she said impatiently. 

“ I have been examined before the magistrate, and 
then liberated on bail. Come and sit down here ; you 
have over-excited yourself.” 

“ How could I be calm at such a crisis ? Tell me. 
have they found him, the man who — who——” 

“ The murderer ? Not yet,” he replied. 

“ But you will not have to go before the magistrate 
again ? ” 

“I shall, unless the man who is guilty is dis- 
covered.” 

“Have they no clue to him?” asked Gal Alex 
anxiously. 

“ None of which I am aware.” 

“ But they may have for all that,” she replied. 

“You are ever hopeful,” said Miriam, turning 
towards her. 

“ It is always the darkest hour which is nearest to 
dawn,” Gal Alex said, looking at Philip. “ This is but 
a passing cloud in your life.” 

“If I thought it was not,” Miriam replied, “I 


283 A MODERN MAGICIAN, 

should go mad ! ” and she rose from her chair, her 
hands burning, her pulse beating, her eyes flashing 
with excitement. 

“ You will make yourself seriously ill,” said Philip. 
“ Remember the better you bear up, the more you will 
be able to help me.” 

“ I help you, I, who have brought you nothing but 
misery and shame,” she answered in bitter self- 
reproach ; “ and yet,” she added in a gentler voice, 
“ I would give my life to save you from pain. Ah, 
Philip, if I could only make you believe this — but 
how can I hope to do so when I think of the past ? ” 
and her voice became choked by sobs. 

“ I know you would, dear ; but if you agitate your- 
self like this you will have brain fever.” 

“ And add fresh care to that which already weighs 
you down. See,” she continued, making an effort to 
subdue her feelings, “ I am quiet now ; I will be calm 
for your sake.” 

“ And now I have much to do,” he said. “ Before I 
have an interview with my solic 'tors I must see Benoni ; 
he may be able to gain a clue which will put justice 
on the murderer’s track.” 

Gal Alex looked at him again^ and it flashed upon 
Philip there was a message in her glance, but he could 
not interpret its meaning, and she remained silent. 

“Then seek him immediately,” Miriam said im- 
patiently. “ Let him now give proof of the power he 
possesses, and save- you from further trouble. Go at 
once.” 

At that instant a loud ring was heard at the street 
door, and for some seconds no one in the room moved 
or spoke. Then IMiriam impatiently crossed to the 
window and looked out. 

“It is he,” she cried, a mingled feeling of hope and 
fear thrilling her. “ It is Benoni.” 


- BENONI’S HELP, 


283 


Philip went into the hall and met the mystic, who 
bowing, with arms crossed upon his breast, said : 

“ Peace be with you.” 

I am glad to see you,” answered Philip ; ‘‘ will you 
come into the dining-room, where my wife and Gral 
Alex are, or ” 

“ I should prefer to speak with you alone.” 

“ Then let us go to my study, where we shall not be 
interrupted.” 

“ It is best,” replied Benoni. 

When they were seated in this room, Philip said, 
•• You know, I suppose, all that has befallen me.” 

“ I am aware he who wronged you has paid part 
of the penalty of his crimes, and that you who are 
innocent have been accused of taking his life,” Benoni 
answered. 

“I have just come from the police court. At 
present the blow of this accusation has deadened my 
senses, and I am almost indifferent to my fate; but 
by-and-by, when I wake to the situation, my horror 
will be terrible.” 

Benoni regarded him with compassion. “ Your trial 
is heavy, indeed,” he said. 

“ But you can rid me immediately of all suspicion 
by revealing the murderer’s name.” 

‘‘Of that I am as ignorant as you are.” 

“ Then,” replied Philip despairingly, “ I am lost.” 

“ Always impatient,” replied the mystic. “ Did I 
come in contact with the man by accident or design, 
then should I know he had committed the deed, and 
describe its occurrence as reflected in the astral light 
surrounding him ; but I know not where to seek 
him.” 

“ Surely you are aware of some other means of 
discovering him ? ” 

“ Hear me, my friend. I have consulted the winged 


284 


A MODERN MAGICUN. 


messengers of air, who for ever attend me, but because 
of their pure spiritual essence they have been unable 
to penetrate the black cloud of malignant hate and 
furious passion surrounding the murdered man. When 
time has helped to dissipate this, they can find the 
assassin’s name and resting place.” 

“ Then it may be too late. Every hour deepens the 
impression of my supposed guilt. Is there no 
hope ? ” 

“ There is. I can gain the knowledge you desire.” 

‘‘ How ? ” asked Philip anxiously. 

“From the mouth of the dead man’s ghost.” 

Amerton started ; an uncanny feeling gradually crept 
over him. 

“ This seems horrible,” he said. 

“ It is necessary,” replied Benoni calmly. 

“But is it not sorcery?” Philip asked, shrinking 
from contaminating himself with necromancy, whilst 
fascinated by the idea Benoni’s words had conjured 
before his vivid imagination. 

“No, not sorcery, or I should not practise it; but 
the science of employing spiritual powers to produce 
visible effects, which the world terms magic.” 

“Forgive me,” said Philip, “ that I allowed even a 
passing doilbt of you to cross my mind ; but so much 
has happened to distract me within the past few hours 
I know not what to say.” 

“The world denies my power, regards me as a 
conjurer, reviles me as an impostor,” answered Benoni 
sadly, “ but I would have you think well of me.” 

“ I have wronged you, pray forgive me.” 

“No WTong can injure me, and I have nothing to 
forgive. I have great desire to serve you, for which 
reason I shall direct the powers I possess to save you 
from farther pain.” 

“ To say I thank you seems so poor a phrase by 


BENOM S HELP. 


285 


which to express my feelings, and yet I know no 
better.” 

The mystic bowed, and after a brief silence said, 
‘‘The process by which I shall summon this dead 
man’s shade is one requiring not only the highest 
powers of a magician, but the greatest courage of a 
man. It is fraught with difficulty, it is not without 
danger, it is a force which should never be exer- 
cised save in such an imminent case of peril as the 
present ? ” 

“ How can this be done ? ” Amerton asked won- 
deringly. 

“ Simply by the efficacy a mystic possesses ; the 
great principles of which are faith and will, the potent 
means of which are symbols and invocations. Now 
listen to me well.” 

“ With all my heart,” Philip made reply. 

“ Each man has two distinct bodies, an earthly and a 
spiritual, closely united, and governed by a soul. The 
outer body is visible and tangible, the inner invisible 
and intangible ; both are so intimately connected that 
an injury or pleasure given to one is immediately 
experienced by the other. If the exterior body suffers 
from sickness or accidents, its inner or ethereal counter- 
part ails likewise, and is no longer in bright and 
buoyant health. If the inner body endures fear, 
remorse, suspense, or absence from those loved, these 
ailments, though leaving no mark upon the outer form, 
cause it to waste and weaken, because of the interior 
disease. The inner body is the envelope of man’s 
soul, largely partaking of its spiritual nature; it is 
usually spoken of as the astral form. It is this astral 
body which the witches and necromancers of old, 
summoning to their presence, injured to death by 
wicked spells, or subjected to obedience by strange 
enchantments, knowing its earthly counterpart must 


280 A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

suffer from its maladies and reflect its inclinations. 
You follow me.” 

“ Clearly.” 

“The perceptive senses of the interior man exceed 
those of the exterior body. When the grossness of 
the latter does not interfere, the inner self perceives 
danger, foresees future events of which it strives to 
warn its counterpart, recognizes at a glance its enemies 
even when wearing the semblance of friends, and 
knowing its friends amongst companies of strangers. 
This shadow man is capable of being made manifest to 
others at distances from its earthly body during its life 
and after its demise. Mystics know the secret of pro- 
jecting it when and where they please, making it 
visible to natural sight, enabling it to converse. At 
death these two bodies are rent asunder, the earthly 
form returns to dust, from which it sprung. The astral 
form, deprived of the soul it encased, and by which 
alone it existed, slowly evaporates. The decay is 
gradual, but finally complete. Before the astral corpse 
dissolves, and whilst retaining its senses, it clings to 
its earthly partner, or hovers near the spot where, in 
case of murder or accident, it was violently dissevered 
from its outer body. It likewise haunts houses it once 
inhabited, visits friends it loved, or enemies it detested, 
seeks the scenes of former enjoyments, and under 
certain circumstances, or in obedience to conjurations 
becomes visible to and speaks with the living. It is a 
mere soulless ghastly shade endowed with sense, fre- 
quently seeking passionate pleasures it is no longer 
capable of enjoying through the human body, and 
invaribly shrinking from an extinction it dreads. In a 
case where it has been prematurely severed from its 
shell by murder, i|, will rejoice at opportunities to 
gratify its desire for vengence by revealing its assassin’s 
iiame if that be unknown, or of driving him on to 


m 


FROM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD. 

suicide or to madness. ‘ To-night, before the first hour 
of day, shall I, while yet its senses are vigorous, 
summon the astral corpse of him of whose death you 
are accused, and bid it reveal its murderer's name.” 

Benoni paused. Philip had listened to him with 
breathless interest, and now asked, “ May I be present 
when you summon this shade ? ” 

“ If your faith be^firm, your will strong, your courage 
unflinching, then come with me and behold the exercise 
of a power few possess; but if you lack one of these 
qualities, better remain where you are.” 

“ I shall go with you,” he replied determinedly. 

“ I leave you now,” said the mystic, “ to prepare for 
my work. Fast from sunset, and pray to Him who 
rules the powers of air and the souls ofimen that I may 
have strength to perform this deed.” 

Where will the conjuration take place ? ” 

“ On the spot where the murder was committed. If 
the shade be not already there, I shall summon it with 
ease to where the dead man’s blood soaks the earth. 
When darkness comes I will call for you here. Be 
ready to accompany me. May peace reign in your 
heart. Amen.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FROM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD, 

This weary day wore slowly away, and evening closed 
in sadly. Totally exhausted by the shock received, 
and excited by the suspense endured, Miriam had been 
obliged to retire early. Silence fell upon the house ; 
without and within reigned depression and gloom. 
Philip had deferred consultation with his solicitors 
until the result became known of the terrible ordeal 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


Beuoni proposed. During the long hours of the after- 
noon and early evening he remained alone in the study, 
thinking over the strange position in which fate had 
placed him, wondering how this chapter in his life’s 
history would end. Impatient of delay, the time which 
must elapse before Benoni arrived seemed intoleiably 
long. He could not read because of the ideas which 
came between him and the page ; he could not rest, 
yet shrank from venturing abroad now his name had 
become a by-word in the world’s mouth. 

It was quite dark when he entered his wife’s bed- 
room. A shaded lamp burned low on a distant table, 
casting weird, distorted shadows on the walls and 
ceiling. Believing Miriam slept, he was about to with- 
draw lest he might disturb her, when she called him. 

“ Have I waked you ? ” he asked, approaching and 
bending over her. 

‘‘No, dear.” 

The haggard face, white as the pillow on which it 
lay, and large frightened eyes unnaturally bright, 
alarmed him. 

“ I fear,” he said, “ you have not been asleep.” 

“ No ; but it’s well I haven’t.” 

“ Why ? ” he asked, seating himself beside her. 

“ Because, latterly, my dreams are terrible, and lying 
awake I have time to think quietly,” she replied 
gently. 

“ But you mustn’t worry yourself in this way, it can 
only harm you.” 

“On the contrary my thoughts have wrought me • 
much good.” 

He did not answer ; the silence of the semi-darkened 
chamber with its weird shadows awed both. At last 
she said in a low voice : 

“I should like, dear, to tell yon something. Can 
you stay with me a little while ? ” 


FROM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD. 289 

“Certainly,” lie replied, “I should have come to you 
before had I not believed you slept.” 

“ I wish,” she said softly, I “ could tell you how much 
I have changed.” 

“I know you have,” he answered, anxious to save 
her pain which references to the past might bring. 

“ I don’t mean I have merely repented my great 
wrong to you, which no act of mine can right again, 
but I feel, nay, I know I have altered inwardly in a 
way I can scarce express. It seems that from my grief 
a new soul is born within me, and all things are 
different from what they were before. When alone 
with my thoughts the pettiness of my former life, its 
shallow excitements and feverish pleasures come home 
to me ; my sin grows darker, and you more noble.” 

“ Did we not agree to let the dead past bury its 
dead?” 

“Aye, but my past will not rest in its grave; its 
ghost rises before me, sits with me through troubled 
days, lies beside me through wakeful nights.” 

He wondered to hear her speak in this strain, and 
pondered on her words ; and again they were silent 
awhile. Presently, as if continuing a train of thought, 
she said : 

“Ah, Philip, I never loved you until now. The 
feeling I bore for you in the first months of our married 
life cannot be compared with my present affection ; for 
at last I begin to understand you, and I fancy if life 
were left me I might in some poor way atone for the 
past.” 

“ How can you speak in this manner ? Why, of 
course, you will live,” he said chidingly, “and when 
this wretched time has passed we shall go hence, and 
in a new world begin a brighter life.” 

She smiled at the prospect, but gradually her pale 
face grew grave. 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


« God grant it,” slie said, “but and her voice 

trembled and was still. 

“ What is it ? ” be said, bending over her. 

“ Lying awake at nights I sometimes fancy death 
lurks amongst the shadows there, waiting for me, 
ready to take me from you, now that I know and value 
your love. Hut surely, oh surely,” she cried, her voice 
rising and her eyes brightening with hysterical excite- 
ment, “this punishment will be spared me. I have 
wept till my heart grew sick, and prayed till my voice 
became faint, for forgiveness, and death must not, shall 
not part us.” Saying which, she suddenly flung her 
arms round her husband as if she would defy the king 
of terrors himself. 

Philip strove to soothe her. 

“ M}' darling,” he replied, “ your nerves have been 
playing you strange tricks because you are weak and 
sad. Presently, when you have grown strong, we 
shall laugh at your childish fears, which with all our 
past sorrows and cares we will leave behind us for 
ever.” 

Even as he spoke she smiled, and unwinding her 
arms from his neck lay back upon her pillows. Then 
he pictured to her the land of their future home. It 
should certainly be in the vigorous new world ; Canada, 
perhaps, or California with its vast tracks of country, 
or Florida with its eternal summer, or one of the great 
cities of the States ; till by degrees she seemed to 
forget her present fears in the contemplation of future 
joys ; and gradually her lids closed drowsily. Then 
he said she must have a long sound sleep, that she 
might be able to remain up all day to-morrow ; he 
winced at thought of what might happen before dawn. 
And summoning her maid, he left Miriam, who followed 
him to the door with her eyes, praying God would 
bless him and pardon her. 


291 


FROM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD. 

He entered the study heavy-hearted and weary, to 
find Benoni awaiting him. 

“ Peace be on you,” said the mystic. 

Has the hour come ? ” Philip asked anxiously. 

**It is at hand,” replied Benoni, and then asked 
gravely, “Are you certain of your courage? If not, 
let me depart alone, and I will wrestle with this shade 
in solitude ; but, if you are brave come with me, and 
such sights shall be revealed to you as few men have 
seen.” 

“ Come what will I shall accompany you.” 

“ My friend,” said the mystic reprovingly, “ you 
must not venture on this undertaking in a spirit ol 
recklessness, but rather with calmness begotten of de- 
termination. Should fear overtake and master you, 
danger, mental and physical, might befall you, which I 
may be unable to prevent ; but should courage sustain 
you, then will you have gained a step in the pathway 
you desire to tread.” 

“ 1 am resolved to go with you,” Amerton answered. 

“ Then in the name of the All-Merciful, follo\T 
me.” 

Philip felt as if he had received the summons of 
some ghastly visitant, whose invitation he was power- 
less to decline, even had he desired to remain ; and in 
another moment they had left the house and were 
walking in silence through the night. The journey 
was to be made on foot. Philip felt as one moving in 
a troubled dream. A vague depressing feeling, whicli 
was neither fear of mind or body, nor sadness of 
thought or soul, took possession of him. He walked 
in mental darkness, not knowing whither his steps 
might lead ; neither despairing nor hoping, btit bur- 
dened by a weight impossible to escape. They were 
soon beyond the outskirts of the town. Benoni was 
silent, and Philip had no desire by the utterance of a 


292 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


word to break the spell which had fallen on him. And 
as they pressed onward it seemed to him he was not 
merely alone with the mystic, but that others whom 
indeed he could neither distinctly hear nor see, went 
with him on his way; a dark and pulseless throng 
surging forward to a common destination. At times 
indeed, soft sounds, as of footsteps treading on dust, 
fell on his ear; and anon the feeling of light and 
almost intangible substances brushing past him made 
him pause ; but only night surrounded him. 

Heedless of time, scarce conscious of motion, he 
followed the tall figure of Benoni until they arrived 
within sight of Wimbledon Common, which seemed 
denser and more dreary for the feeble chain of yellow 
lamps bounding its circumference. A faint wind 
soughed across the dark space, as though nature 
sobbed aloud. In the midnight sky a waning moon 
had risen, whose faint aerial light touched the summits 
of the distant Surrey hills, leaving their bases drowned 
in shadows. And as Philip entered the common, the 
conviction that he was but one in a ghastly speechless 
train became stronger yet. He felt prompted to 
stretch forward his hands in darkness, but withheld 
his inclination, lest his touch might encounter — he 
knew not what ; he would have spoken, but words died 
unuttered on his lips. 

Onwards they went, crossing dark patches of heather, 
past dismal ponds where frogs croaked ominously, over 
the little brook that had heard the last words Colonel 
Tarbert spoke, and had witnessed the struggle between 
the murderer and the murdered. Beyond its murmur 
no other sound disturbed the solemn silence of ap- 
proaching midnight. Around lay vast space ; beneath, 
the darksome earth ; above, the watchful heavens. The 
scene and hour well befitted the task of calling a dead 
man back to life. Having arrived at the spot where 


FROM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD. 293 

Colonel Tarbert had been strangled, Benoni paused 
and waited for Amerton to join him. The moonlight 
was sufficient to show them the torn trampled and 
blood-soaked ground where the struggle had taken 
place. The mystic looked at his companion. “ You 
must cast fear from your heart,” he said, “but with 
courage no evil can befall you. It is not yet too late 
to withdraw’. Do you go, or stay ? ” 

“ I stay,” Philip answered firmly. 

“ Now do I begin my work ; it will soon be midnight, 
and by the first hour of day we must have done.” 

Laying outside his outer robe, he appeared habited 
in the white linen garment he had worn when Amuni 
revealed himself to Philip. Then producing a short 
wand, of curious workmanship, he described a circle 
sixty-three feet in circumference, around which he 
walked thrice, repeating incantations the while. 

“ Within this space,” he said, “it is impossible for 
any living creature save you and I to come ; see that 
you pass not without it ; beyond its bounds, nought 
can be seen by mortal sight of what may happen 
inside.” 

From this ring he measured seven feet, and then 
made an inner circle, uttering low gruesome chants as 
he worked. 

“ Pass not beyond this,” he said, “ but stand between 
the two.” 

Taking some laurel and sandal wood he had carried 
with him, he speedily built a pyre in the centre on the 
spot soaked with blood, and having made many mystic 
signs above it, and w’alked around it three times seven, 
lighted and watched it kindle into flames. Then with 
some of the burning wood he described around the 
fire a third circle, taking heed he stepped not#within 
its circumference. A thin column of smoke slowly 
rose and blended with night ; the fire kindled, fanned 


294 


A MODEKN MAGICIAN. 


by winds rushing from the four corners of the desolate 
common, a column of red light consuming darkness. 

Around the inner circle Benoni walked, with out- 
stretched arms, and voice raised in fervent supplication. 
Then pausing to take from his breast a lock of the 
murdered man’s hair, he, uttering conjurations in 
weird and plaintive tones, cast it on the pyre. At 
first it seemed the flames died suddenly out leaving 
darkness triumphant, but soon they rose with increased 
strength and burned with lurid hues. Thereon, appa- 
rently from beneath the earth, at first subdued, but 
momentarily increasing in volume, was heard a con- 
fusion of sounds as of wailing infants strangled at birth, 
and piteous cries of suicides, and despairing shouts of 
brave men drowning in their strength, and hoarse 
murmurs of human agony, and piercing screams of. 
maniacs. And from within the circle billows of smoke 
and flame ascended, in the midst of which half-formed 
and deformed figures, more monsters than men, 
flittingly appeared and vanished, issuing from fire and 
blending with smoke, loading the air with impreca- 
tions vile, 

Benoni s^ood unmoved and with reverent mien, his 
white-robed figure defined against the crimson light. 
In a voice ringing above the terrible confusion of 
noises he cried out, “ By the measureless atmosphere 
and all that move therein, by the boundless and 
fathomless seas and all that dwell therein, by the earth 
and all that live upon its surface and beneath its crust, 
by the fire and such beings as exist within its flames, 
by the light of day and the silence of night, by the 
sacred rites of Hecate, I conjure and exorcise thee, 
thou distressed shade, as thou hopest for rest from 
pain, ior ease from misery, to present thyself here and 
reveal unto me the name of thy murderer, and answer 
such questions as I demand.” 


FROM THE MOUTH OF THE JDEAI). 


295 


He ceased. The winds were quieted, the earth was 
still, an oppressive silence as if nature listened and 
were awed, filled all space. Then the mystic spoke 
again in solemn tones : 

“ Shade of him murdered on this spot, bodiless 
phantom dwelling in air, astral semblance of the dead, 
I conjure and exorcise thee by the power within me 
thou darest not defy, to rise immediately before ipe 
and answer my demands. Great will be thy punish- 
ment if thou dost not obey, for with a sign of my right 
hand shall I compel thee to endure agonies unknown 
to thee.” 

Scarce had his words ended when a mighty change 
came over the face of night. Earth shook on its axis 
convulsed by fear, the waning moon suddenly sank 
into chaos, tom clouds fled wildly through the ominous 
sky, furious winds shrieked like the cries of lost souls 
hurled to fathomless depths, lightning-lit rain de- 
scended from heaven, rustling in its fall as if with the 
black wings of outcast angels. Within the inner circle 
the darkening atmosphere grew thick with hell’s most 
foul and wanton tribe: the blood-streaked, leprous 
and distraught embodiment of nameless deeds, before 
which light shrank aghast, above which darkness 
gloated ravenously. Troops of scarce-shaped creatures 
of hideous feature and evil portent — slimily creeping 
in abject blindness, whirling circle-wise in tortured 
madness — darted and peered blear-eyed and menacing 
through smoke, to hide their loathsomeness anon neath 
flame. Affrighted night became clamorous with sounds 
of imprecations hissed serpent-like from venomous 
tongues, with yells of wild despair, and laughter of 
madmen’s gladness, and words of blasphemous intent 
shrieked from blistering throats. 

But as Benoni prayed with outstretched hands, this 
hellish outburst gradually subsided. Then the column 


296 


A MODEKN MAGICIAN. 


of smoke rising from the blood-soaked ground slowly 
solidified, until it assumed a semblance of the form 
and figure of the murdered man. There stood the 
phantom, a ghastly, soulless, inhuman thing, with dull 
protruding eyes, swollen features and twitching lips, 
the counterpart of its earthly body, a sight to make 
men mad from fear, a visitant to blast the fruitful 
earth with barrenness. As yet it seemed unconscious 
of its own existence or surroundings, but remained 
motionless and dazed, as if awaked from deep sleep, or 
summoned from abysmal depths. Phosphorescent 
light wrapped it as with a mantle ; the atmosphere 
glowed with consuming heat. And once more was 
heard the mystic’s voice uttering a chant that rose and 
fell with even cadence, by virtue of which a change 
came over the astral corpse. For suddenly its chest 
heaved as with the breath of life, its limbs moved, and 
reason dawning in its terrible eyes, they fastened 
themselves eagerly upon the figure of the mystic. 

“Why,” it demanded in a low tone, the very 
mockery of a human voice, “ why have you summoned 
me here ? ” 

“ That I may gain from you knowledge I am 
otherwise powerless to obtain ; that you may right 
one who in life you much wronged. Some hours 
ago your human counterpart was murdered on this 
spot.” 

At these words its face quickly changed. “ Hours 
ago,” it interrupted, “ weeks, months, it may be years 
ago, I was strangled by a cowardly villain. Were it in 
my power I would tear his heart from his body whilst 
he lived, and dead, I would bury him fathoms deep in 
hell. I haunt him night and day, his dreams are 
madness, his waking delirium; help me to have 
vengeance is all I ask.” 

Its eyes burned with the red agony of hate, its lips 


FEOM THE MOUTH OF THE DEAD. 


297 


trembled from fury, it scattered blood from its writh- 
ing bands. 

“ Nay,” said Benoni gently, “ leave vengeance to a 
higher power ; this passion but increases your torture, 
and will quicken your extinction.” 

“ Give me revenge and leave me to my fate,” it 
replied shortly. 

“ No knowledge of him who murdered you has been 
yet obtained, but an innocent man is charged with the 
deed.” 

“ Who is he ? ” asked the phantom. 

A man whom you grievously injured — ^Philip 
Amerton.” 

At mention of the name the terrible shade jabbered 
hideously as if it would have laughed. 

“ I hate him. I hate him,” it said. 

“ Why ? ” questioned Benoni. 

“ You know well ; because I have done him wrong.” 

“ This is a reason you should now right him,” replied 
the mystic. 

“We hate best those who serve us and those we 
injure. He has been twice my rival. His wife left 
me and returned to him before I had grown weary of 
her.” 

“ Remember you have for ever done with earthly 
passions.” 

“ My desires are strong as when I lived.” 

“Then you would have an innocent man suffer 
death for your murder.” 

“ I would have Amerton hanged,” it said, and again 
came the pitiless jabbering sounds from fleshless lips. 

“ And have him who took your life enjoy that of 
which he deprived you ? ” 

“ No, curse the villain. I would have him taste the 
torments I have known.” 

“ Then tell me his name, I command you.” 


298 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


You will see me avenged,” cried out the ghastlv 
shade. 

“ His name — waste no more time.” 

“ It is ” it said, but. its voice faltered and its 

sentence ended abruptly. Benoni looked upwards, 
and from some faint change in the sky saw the allotted 
time for the interview between the living and the dead 
had almost ended. Then directing his glance to the 
astral corpse, he saw with fearful eyes its consciousness 
had begun to fade. 

“ Speak,” he said ; “ a moment more and it may be 
too late. Who is your murderer ? ” 

The lips of the phantom moved, but emitted no 
sound. Benoni extended his arms, and with all his 
will and strength pronounced a conjuration and com- 
mand, then added, ‘‘ His name, the name of him who 
strangled you. I bid you speak.” 

A great struggle passed over the face of the shade, a 
wild look as if it were fearful of losing revenge gleamed 
in its horrible eyes, with one strong endeavour con- 
sciousness was recovered, and it gasped out the name, 
“ Jacob Glender.” 

“ This is the truth you speak ? ” asked Benoni. 

“ Assuredly. It is the name by which he was known 
to men; formerly he was called the Kev. Amos. 
Berkeley.” 

“ Where is he to be found ? ” 

“Even now is he close at hand. I lure him to this 
spot that his torture may be the greater ; he cannot 
escape me.” 

“ Why did he murder you ? ” 

“Because I had taken from him the woman he 
called his wife. Set the hounds of justice on his track. 
I shall help them to run him down. Is there more 
you would say to me ; if so, speak at once, or I shall 
fade from your sight and lose all power of speech.” 


HOLDING COUNSEL. 


299 


“No more. A^^lat you have said suffices for my 
purpose. Withdraw in peace and depart unto your 
proper place without injury to any man ; and peace be 
continued between y(m and me. Silence and farewell.” 

In the stillness following this speech came a wailing 
sound, “ Farewell.” A whirlwind of desperate voices 
rose in the air, then suddenly ceased, leaving night 
affrighted by their shriek. The shade of the murdered 
man faded to a column of grey smoke rising from the 
pyre ; the low red light of the firewood died suddenly 
out. Then did Benoni destroy all traces of the circles 
he had made. And as he and Amerton left the 
common, across which frighted winds swept sobbing in 
their flight, the first hour of a new day rang out firom 
the belfry of a distant church. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

HOLDING COUNSEL. 

On the second evening following the night of Colonel 
Tarbert’s murder, Ulic called by appointment on Gal 
Alex. She was alone in the drawing-room, seated in a 
deep arm-chair, well removed from the faint light of 
crimson-shaded lamps. Apparently she awaited him. 
When he entered she rose to greet him, and Ulic saw 
her face was paler than its wont, and became conscious 
of a suppressed nervousness in her voice and manner. 
This gradually imparting itself to him, he became ill- 
at-ease. 

“ Have you seen Mrs. Amerton to-day? ” he asked, 
anxious to plunge at once into a subject of interest to 
both. 

“ Yes,” she replied ; “ I was with her the whole 


800 A MODERN MAGICIAN. 

afternoon. This murder and accusation are terrible 
blows to her ; they revive the past, and she reproaches 
herself as the cause of the crime, and its consequences. 
I have never seen a woman more miserable.” 

Ulic moved uneasily. I called on Philip to-da^^ 
but he was not at home,” he remarked. 

‘‘ Nor have I seen him ; but I fancy the arrest affects 
him much less than it does his wife. Those who stand 
helplessly by, looking on the stricken they love, suffer 
most.” 

“ If their natures are sensitive,” he added. 

“ In her nervous condition suspense will kill her.” 

Ulic started. 

“Because in her remorse for the past,” continued 
Gal Alex, “she exaggerates the danger threatening 
Philip, and by way of adding to her torture is secretly 
convinced he must suffer for this crime.” 

“ Good heavens.” The room with its semi-light 
became almost unendurable to Ulic; the speaker’s 
white face, earnest eyes and serious voice impressed 
him painfully. “ If you and I,” he said, “ who are 
merely his friends, believe him innocent, surely his 
wife must be convinced of it likewise.” 

“ So she is implicitly ; but she hasn’t a suspicion of 
the murderer, which one of us has.” 

Ulic gazed at her in astonishment, and waited to let 
her proceed, but she did not seem inclined to 
continue. 

“ Then you know ” he said. 

“ Nothing, but I suspect much,” she replied. 

“ But how did you become acquainted with the fact 
I held a clue to the murderer ? ” 

She leaned forward eagerly ; her eyes dilating with 
surprise searched his face, and with a voice tremulous 
from suppressed emotion, asked, “What is this you 


HOLDING COUNSEL. 


801 


“Yon know I suspect ” and he paused. 

“ No, indeed. I believed the surmises rested only 
with myself, and I dared not speak lest my words might 
bring him ” 

“ Jacob Glender.” 

“Yes, to his death. I have been torn by suspense 
when alone, and with remorse for my silence when I 
see Miriam suffer ; and yet,” she continued excitedly, 
“ the man I believe to have murdered Colonel Tarbert 
is my husband ; in the eyes of God and the world he 
is my husband, and I cannot denounce him. I know 
not how to act, but come what will the innocent must 
not suffer for the guilty. Since the news of the 
murder reached me I have not been able to think or 
sleep. After all I am but a helpless woman.” 

“ But not friendless,” said Ulic in a voice which 
touched her. 

She stretched out her hand to him in response. 
“ Thank heaven for that,” she exclaimed. “ And there- 
fore I have sent for you, dear friend, that you may 
advise me.” 

“ What you have mentioned of your suspicions fills 
me with surprise,” said Ulic, “for I have reason to 
believe Jacob Glender the murderer ; but until now no 
word of my thoughts has crossed my lips— because — — ” 

He left his sentence unfinished, but she understood 
what he would say. The knowledge that he had been 
the means of handing over to justice and death the one 
man who obstructed his path to happiness, must not 
shadow his future. He felt certain the woman he loved 
would never accept the hand of him who gave her hus- 
band to the executioner. It was a terrible thought for 
Ulic. He had waited for her patiently, would wait to 
the end hopefully, but fate threatened to deprive him 
of the bliss he sought. He was resolved, no matter ho^ 
he might suffer in the present and future, to speak and 


302 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


save Philip if danger really threatened him. But jtixjC a 
might without his help find a clue to Glender some day , 
meanwhile he would remain silent. Presently hi^ 
thoughts coming round to the words Gal Alex had 
spoken, he said, “ You haven’t told me how you 
came to think Jacob Glender had committed this 
murder.” 

“No. Two nights ago I sat in the study correcting 
proofs, the hour was late. Suddenly I heard a violent 
ring at the street door bell, and immediately after a 
servant told me a man wished to see me on urgent 
business. I at once knew who it was, and it flashed on 
me this visit must be the outcome of pressing necessity 
or he wouldn’t forfeit my annuity by breaking the terms 
of our agreement. I also remembered I was in his 
power ; one sentence from him to the servants and my 
secret was the world’s property. Therefore I resolved to 
see him.” 

“ You were brave.” 

“ Prepared as I was for him, his appearance startled 
me. His face was deadly white ; in his eyes lurked the 
expression of a wild beast at bay. At first I believed 
him drunk, but his collected manner quickly convinced 
me of my error, and I soon saw I had nothing to fear 
from him. He said he knew he had wronged me, that 
1 had behaved better than he deserved. ‘ Do me but 
one more good turn,’ he said, ‘ and I swear you shall 
never see me again. It may be I haven’t long to live, 
but long o short, you will be troubled by me no more. 
I am going to leave this country ; give me what money 
you can to-night.’ I saw it was no time to hesitate ; I 
suspected some dire event had happened in his life, I 
dared not think what. I told him I had but ten pounds 
with me. ‘ Give it me,’ he said savagely. I unlocked 
a drawer and laid ten sovereigns on the desk. As he 
eagerly s retched forward his right hand to grasp them, 


HOLDING COUNSEL. 


303 


I saw it was smeared with blood. He noticed it at the 
same time and quickly pulled it back, then his eyes fixed 
themselves on mine, and for a second, that seemed an 
eternity, I felt my life stood in danger. He put forth 
his left hand and grasped the gold. ‘ Ho matter what 
you hear, kej^p silent,’ he said. ‘ Speak of what you have 
seen to-night, and my blood be on your head,’ and turn- 
ing away with the air of one hunted by deadly fear, he 
left the house. I was filled with a sense of approaching 
terror. Next day when I heard of Colonel Tarbert’s 
death I felt Jacob Glender was his murderer. I cannot 
tell you what torture I have since suffered ; now praying 
for his arrest that the task of revealing my suspicions 
might be removed from me, and Philip’s innocence be 
established ; again asking forgiveness because my 
desires seemed guilty. Then comes my great dread, 
that if captured the whole story of his wuetched life and 
mine will become subjects of vulgar curiosity and pitiless 
gossip to thousands. I am miserable — miserable,” she 
cried out. 

It tortured Ulic to see her suffer, and feel unable to 
relieve her. ‘‘ What you tell me, strongly confirms my 
opinion as to Glender’s guilt,” he said, “ of which you 
will remember neither of us has proof. Once when I 
called on the colonel, Glender came to his rooms, and I 
immediately recognized him as the same man who had 
obtained an interview with you whilst I remained in the 
garden. I then learned he was well known to Bob, and 
I had reason to believe they were concerned in a recent 
forgery ; soriie difference probably arose between them, 
which ended in this murder. I should at once have 
mentioned my suspicions to the police, but ” 

“ But that he is my husband,” she added bitterly. 

“ What is tcvbe done ? ” Ulic asked. 

“ Ah, dear friend, that is a question I have asked 
myself again and again without being able to answer.” 


S04 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


“ A woman sees further than a man in trouble, doubt, 
or danger.” 

‘‘ But a man’s common-sense judges best.” 

“ Had we not better wait and see if, without your aid 
or mine, justice will not charge Glender with the 
murder ? ” 

‘‘ And meanwhile leave suspicions to fasten on Philip, 
and suspense to kill his wife.” 

“ But really we have no proof Jacob Glender is guilty 
of this deed.” 

“ Yet in our hearts each is convinced he did, and 
because of our certainty we refuse to speak. No, look 
at it in what light we will, there remains but one thing 
for us to do.” 

“ And that ? ” 

“ Our duty. It must be done, though,” she added 
sadly ; ‘‘ it forfeits our chance of happiness. Mention 
your suspicions to the police, saying no word of what I 
have told you.” 

“ I cannot do this, because I feel you would never 
wed the man who denounced your husband to the 
law.” 

We must think only of our duty,” she replied after a 
pause. “ I feel every hour of silence increases our 
guilt. With one word you might bring hope to a 
suspected man, peace to a suffering woman.” 

“ I cannot. Not till Philip stands in actual danger 
shall I speak.” 

‘‘ It may then be too late to save him. Glender may 
have escaped, and all evidence of his guilt have disap- 
peared. Good heavens, what do I say ? ” 

But fate may bring him to his deserts without oui 
aid.” 

She thought a moment, and then said quickly and 
with relief, “ Let us consult Benoni ; he will keep our 
secret and advise us how to act.” 


HOLDING COUNSEL. 


“I had not thought of him before,” replied Ulic, 
grasping at this outlet from his present difficulty. “ I 
shall -seek and bring him here, to-night, if it be not too 
late.” 


“ Come with him at any hour. I shall await him 
impatiently.” 

Ulic rose, full of a new determination, but before he 
crossed the room a servant opened the door and 
announced the mystic. Gral Alex eagerly went forward 
to welcome his arrival at this most opportune moment. 
Calm, dignified and grave, he crossed his hands upon 
his breast and bowed in salutation. 

I am more glad than usual to see you,” she said, 
when he had seated himself near her. “ Indeed, Mr. 
Tarbert was about to seek you.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, as if already aware of the fact. 

“For we have that to tell you which perplexes us 
greatly, and we know not how to act. You will advise 
us ? ” 

“ You would speak to me,” answered Benoni, “ of 
the man known as Jacob Grlender?” 

His hearers started. 

“ Yes,” she replied, fixing her eyes upon him. 

“ You need take no further trouble concerning 
him.” 

“ He has been arrested ? ” 

“ He is dead.” 

“ Dead,” they echoed, and the same question flashed 
on both— would his death prevent his crime being 
proved ? Then came a second thought, Gal Alex was 
free. This idea for a moment bereft them of all feeling 
but that of happy relief. Presently Ulic asked, “Is it 
known ? ” 

“That he strangled Colonel Tarbert? Yes. This 
morning information of his being the murderer was 
given to the police ; by the afternoon they had traced 


306 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


him to Wimbledon Common. Having reason to believe 
he would visit the scene of his crime they lay in am- 
bush waiting for him. Towards evening he arrived at 
the spot, they rushed forward to arrest him; he fled, 
they pursued ; as they approached him he drew out a 
revolver and shot himself through the chest. The 
wound did not prove immediately fatal. He lived one 
hour, and in his last moments confessed he had 
murdered Colonel Tarbert. His dying deposition has 
been taken. 

He is dead,” said Ulic, wishing to assure himself of 
news that would alter his whole life. 

“He is dead,” repeated Benoni solemnly. “ Having 
sought Philip and assured him suspicion was no longer 
directed towards him, I came here, that my words 
might bring relief and gladness to your hearts.” 

“Always a faithful friend,” said Gal Alex grate- 
fully. 

A weight which had burdened her years had suddenly 
fallen from her. The man who had blighted her young 
life, filled her with sorrow, made her acquainted with 
shame, was dead. From him she could suffer no 
further wrong. In her darkest moment the crown of 
her happiness had come. She was free to wed the man 
who loved her — whom she loved beyond all men, above 
all things. The tragedy of her existence had ended, 
A sense of peace and thankfulness filled her breast. 

“You know,” said Benoni to her, “I would serve 
you.” 

“ I remember you once told me so, and added if I 
were in doubt or danger I was to send for you. I was 
about to obey when you entered. Likewise do I recall 
your words, which I have often read with doubt and 
despair : ‘The day shall be when love will reign in 
your heart as a moon in heaven calming a troubled 
sea.*” 


FAKE WELL. 


m 


It is even now at hand,” said the mystic. “ My 
children, may happiness crown your lives, may peace 
for ever dwell in your souls.” 

And rising up he departed from them. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

FAKEWELL. 

With sudden relief from suspense, Miriam’s strength 
gave way, and a violent fever prostrated her for weeks. 
Little hope for her recovery was entertained by those 
surrounding her, but eventually she rallied and returned 
from the gates of death. Her progress towards com- 
plete health was slow. Summer came and went, and 
she still remained a wreck of her former self. All 
through winter she was unable to leave the house. 

When spring returned, she said her strength would 
certainly be restored, and she cheerfully dwelt on the 
drives she would take, the dresses she would wear, the 
few remaining friends she would visit. It must surely 
be a pleasant time ; the beginning of a new existence. 
But, meanwhile, all through the dark and dreary 
months of winter, she sat hour after hour all day in a 
great arm-chair drawn close by the fire. Here Philip, 
sitting at her feet, her hand upon his head or shoulder, 
read to her untiringly, spoke to her with feigned cheer- 
fulness, painted all that would be in their future lives. 
Here she had received the doctor’s visits, dreamt dark 
dreams of the past, thought much of the future, when 
hope and fear like angels of light and darkness attended 
her by turns. Those who watched her pale, pinched 
face and lustrous eyes did not doubt her days were 
numbered. She had been summoned hence, and with 


308 


A MODEKN MAGICLiN. 


lingering footsteps and reluctant will obeyed a mandate 
none dared slight. 

Spring, joyous and newborn, triumphing over bleak- 
ness and death, came, and found her unwilling to leave 
her bed ; she rested better there she explained, and was 
warmer. She must postpone her drives until summer, 
a few weeks longer at most. Never complaining, 
though occasionally racked with pain, she obeyed the 
doctor’s orders in all things, mechanically, silently, 
hopelessly, for it gradually dawned upon her she was 
dying — slowly dying. And through the dark cypress 
foliage of fears, she looked on the pale kingdom of death. 

Throughout the slow days and weary nights, when 
the dread shadow seemed never absent from her side, 
what visions of the past and thoughts of the future rose 
in her mind. All things appeared to her in a clearer 
and newer light than she had beheld them before. It 
seemed but yesterday she had enjoyed the simple 
pleasures of her girlhood ; the faces of school friends, 
long forgotten until now, rose in her memory, some- 
times their voices rang in her ears. Then came the 
days in which she had first met Philip, felt awed at his 
grave manner, interested in his life, questioned her 
heart regarding him. She thought she had loved him 
then, but judging from the present standard of her 
affection knew now her feelings were but the outcome 
of fancy. How happy had she been during the first 
brief months of their married life, before a change came 
and parted them. Eecollections followed of the feverish 
hour of temptation and flight, succeeded by awakening 
and remorse, parting from him she came to loathe, 
reconciliation to him she had wronged. 

If she had a chance of beginning life over again, how 
differently would she act. Nay, if she might only start 
from the present standpoint in her journey, how hard 
she would strive to become worthy of Philip, to make 


FAEEWELL. 


atonement for her desertion by her affection ; but fate 
had decreed this must not be. Surely her sin had been 
speedily punished; she could but bow her head and 
submit. 

She had never understood her husband, never appre- 
ciated his love, or fathomed his feelings until now — 
when they were about to part. That her perceptions 
came too late filled her with pain. Here again was 
the bitter mockery of fate laughing discordantly 
through every phase of life. Had she felt towards him 
in the past as she did in the present, what sorrow, 
shame, and remorse had been spared her. Why had 
the light revealing him clearly to her eyes come so 
tardily ? 

During these days of pain, when her spirit gradually 
released itself from her body, her husband’s presence 
formed her fullest happiness. She counted the 
moments of his absence, listened for sounds of his 
footsteps, and welcomed him with brightening eyes. 
But oftentimes whilst he was beside her came the 
cruel thought that in a little while she, having passed 
from his life would be forgotten. One day not far 
distant, but alas terribly near, she would be taken 
away and laid amongst a pale silent company, and 
he would return without her to the home which 
should know her no more. Whilst all things went on 
as before for him, she, a loathsome object hidden away 
from the shrinking sight of men, would slowly crumble 
into dust. For weeks and months after her departure 
he would doubtless feel a void in his life, but time 
healing this would rob her of his love ; and through 
coming years, though he might remember her now 
and then, her absence would cause him no bitter pang. 
The spring of next year would look — it may be — as 
bright to his eyes as this, though she should not be 
with him. 


310 


A MODEliN MAGICIAN. 


Brooding over these thoughts, she was filled with 
misery ; not that she blamed him, only she rebelled 
against forgetfulness of the absent, a law of nature the 
liyng hold merciful. No life, she knew, could bear 
long continuance of passionate grief; the memory of 
the brightest, most loving, the noblest and best, 
gradually fades from the recollections of those whose 
hearts have been well-nigh broken during dark 
days and bitter hours immediately following final 
separation. The widowed wife who believes the world 
can never be the same to her, with the passage of 
time feels fresh interests spring into existence ; the 
bereaved widower seeks consolation in a new affection ; 
the orphan forms ties closer than those which bouud 
him to father or mother. It is always the same. Let 
the footprints be ever so deeply marked in the sands 
of life, presently a wave of time sweeps in and they 
are not. Were the dead to return, what changes would 
they find ; old places filled, strangers more cherished 
than they, the past forgotten in the present. Better, 
far better they never come back. 0, darkness and 
desolation ; 0, misery and pain, but this is cruel. 

Now, whilst her heart beat and blood still ran in her 
veins, her nature rose rebelliously against this fate, 
and she would have risked her future chance of happi- 
ness could she but insure Philip’s lasting recollecti( n 
of herself ; but experience of humanity assured her this 
might not be. 

Hours there were, when the world being bright with 
sunshine and the sky unfretted by cloud, faint hopes of 
recovery mocked the darkness of her fears. Still in 
the morning of life, she shrank from the night of 
death. To descend day by day, inch by inch into the 
grave, whilst the world was fair and glad, filled her 
with horror and self-compassion. She had sorrowed 
deep for her sin ; perhaps mercy would be shown her 


FAREWELL. 


311 


in the eleventh honr. She was yet young ; the future 
promised much happiness; her death would cause 
Philip pain ; maybe for these reasons a few more years 
would be meted out to her. 

Such thoughts fretted her one day early in May. 
She had been more than usually sleepless the previous 
night, and nervously restless through the morning 
hours. Philip, watching beside her, happily uncon- 
scious of the struggle tearing at her heart-strings, saw 
her lids closed, and in a little while, believing she 
slept, softly rose to depart. She instantly opened her 
eyes, filled with tears, and he sat down by her again in 
silence. 

“ The day looks bright and warm,” she said feebly, 
“ but I am cold, aye, cold as the grave in which I shall 
soon be laid. I feel as if I were already turning to 
clay.” 

He could not answer her, dared not look at her ; but 
taking one of her pale thin hands, clasped it to his 
breast as if he would impart his vitality to her. They 
could hear the pulse of life beating in the High Street 
close by; the ceaseless roll of traffic, cries of flower 
vendors and newsboys, loud voices of passing crowds. 
The whole world seemed glad. Sunshine came in 
broad beams through the windows of this room of 
death, falling on the carpet and touching the bed, as 
if it would mercifully brighten the home of one who 
could enjoy its pleasant light no more. 

“It is now spring,” she said, “my favourite season, 
when earth is born again, and yet I must die.” 

“ My darling,” he replied, struggling hard to steady 
his voice, “ there is still hope. How that sunshine and 
warm days have returned you may grow stronger, and 
in the autumn we shall go abroad, away from a cold 
English winter, and remain there until you are well.” 

She looked at him questioningly, wondering if he said 


312 


A MODERIS' MAGICIAN. 


this merely to cheer her, or if he really deceived 
himself. 

“The sunshine,” she said sadly, “like all good 
things, has come too late for me.” 

He only pressed her hand. No pain he had ever 
endured equalled that he now experienced. Instantly 
she felt the suffering her words had caused. 

“ Forgive me, Philip,” she pleaded. “ I am selfish 
and cruel to say this to you ; but oh, my love, it is 
terribly hard to part from you ; the thought tears out 
my heart.” 

She stretched her worn hands to him, and he, sitting 
by her pillow, took her in his arms. She nestled her 
head upon his breast. After some moments’ silence, 
during which heaven only knows what dark and 
troubled thoughts flitted across her mind, she spoke 
again in so a low tone he could scarce catch her 
words. 

“ It is best,” she said, her poor pale lips trembling, 
a world of despairing sadness in her tones ; it is best 
after all I should die. I have told myself this so 
often, I have almost come to believe it now. My life 
went wrong, some evil fate crossed it, but it may be 
righted elsewhere, Grod knows.” 

“ Dear heart,” he said gravely, “ even if we are 
parted, think how little you lose, how valueless is life. 
You place your hopes of happiness in it now because 
its speedy termination seems possible ; but if a long 
range of years were guaranteed you, how little would 
you esteem their possession. Are we not as children 
who cry bitterly when toys are taken from them, 
which, left in their hands, would speedily be broken 
and cast heedlessly away ? What pleasures or profits 
worth having does existence hold for any of us ; 
affections which weary with time, honours that bring 
no balm to craving hearts, friends who disappoint, 


FAREWELL. 


813 


expectations that prove fruitless, realizations that 
deceive. These are the garlands crowning life’s bitter 
struggle. What are we but phantoms, melting into 
shadows at night, from which we merged at morn, leav- 
ing no trace behind. Could you and I change places, 
I would gladly welcome the peace of death.” 

His words brought her little consolation. 

I am not a philosopher who reasons,” she answered, 
“but a woman who loves, and — and — we must part.” 
Her heart overflowed with feelings she was powerless 
to express. Would he in the future know the depth 
and strength of her affection; would he ever realize 
how fully he absorbed her life ? If she could but make 
him understand. 

“ Oh, Philip,” she broke out with a vigour and 
earnestness that surprisea nmi, “ I could die happy if 
I thought you would remember me always, never for- 
get me.” 

“ My darling,” he answered, striving to be calm, 
“ you will be with me ever. Even if death robs me of 
you, I knowThe grave cannot imprison a soul. Drop- 
ping the body as a cast-garment, the spirit enjoys a 
freedom never known before. You will be with me 
always. Do you believe this ? ” he asked. 

“ Being with you,” she answered slowly, “ would be 
heaven to me.” 

“ Then we shall know no separation.” 

She looked at him with a world of love and gratitude, 
as if she would impress herself for ever on his mind. 
Neither spoke. So great a love could not bear the poor 
expression of words ; they understood each other in all. 
But even as their eyes met, hers changed, a frightened, 
fixed stare rested in them. ’ Her foot was on the thres- 
hold of the portal all must pass ; the vision of a world, 
concerning which none who has seen may speak flashed 
upon her sight. She muttered some words he could 


814 


A MODERN MAGICIAN. 


not catch. Startled and fearful, he placed his ear near 
her lips, only to hear what filled him with new dread. 
Pressing his arms closely round her, as if he would im- 
prison life, he called aloud for help, but before the 
sound of his voice had ceased she lay dead upon his 
breast. 

P^or her time had ceased, eternity had begun. 

He laid her back upon the pillows, reverently knelt 
beside her, and burying his head, gave vent to sup- 
pressed feelings. And as the deep is roused by storms, 
so was his heart rent by grief. How long he remained 
here he never knew. As in a dream, he was conscious 
the door opened and Benoni entered. The mystic 
advanced and placed one hand upon Philip’s shoulder, 
but he neither moved nor spoke. 

“ My friend,” said Benoni, with this fair life your 
sorrows end. Your trials have been great, but your 
victory is incomplete. The human element in your 
nature overcame the spiritual, and in this incarnation 
you can never possess the powders you desired to enjoy.” 

Still Philip remained silent and motionless. 

“ But,” continued Benoni, as justice is the first 
principle of all divine laws, the gifts you have merited 
will be given you freely. Length of days, the affection 
of many friends, fame that will echo through the new 
world and the old, such wealth as you desire shall be 
yours. The inner sight you possess will be increased 
fourfold, so that it will pierce all outward seeming, 
read men’s minds as an open page, scan the future 
relating to your ways. Peace will dwell in your heart. 
It may be whilst in the flesh you and I will never meet 
again; but when counsel is necessary mine shall be 
yours; and in the silent hours of dusk and grey of 
dawn, when the world without is hushed and your 
heart seeks rest, I shall be with you visible to sight. 
Dear friend, farewell.” 


FAREWELL. 


315 


Philip, still kneeling with bowed head by the bed of 
death, listened dreamily to the mystic’s words. When 
they had ceased he said, “Give me back this life I 
have lost, the one object on earth I love, and withhold 
the boons you promise.” 

No reply fell on his ears. When he rose up he was 
alone with the dead. 


THE 



iXraderaark 



PflIW EXPELLEl! ! 

y acknowledged to be tho best and 
most eflicaciousKemodv’ for GOL'l' 
and nilEUJlAllSU, ne testified by 
Thousands of people. Who has 
once tried this excellent Remedy 
will always keep tho “PAIN EX- 
PELLKR” trademark “Anchor” 
in his house, bold by all Chemists. 
Price 50 Cents. 

r. AD. mCHTES & CO. 

310 BROADWAY, NEW YORK and 
LONDON, E. C. 1, RAILWAY 
PLACE, FEKCHURCk ST. 

Pull particulars mailed free. 


A CLEAR COMPLEXION ! 

"West 63d St., N. Y., lady writes: 

“I found Dr. Campbell’s Arsenic 
Complexion Wafers did all yon giiar- 
, . anteed they would do. I was delicate 
from the effects of malaria, could not 
Bleep or eat, and had a ‘ WRETCHED 
- COMPLEXION;’ but NOW all is 
changed. 1 not only sleep and eat 
•well, but my complexion is the envy 
and talk of my lady friends. You may 
refer to me.” (Name and address fur- 
nished to ladies.) By mail, 50c. and 
$1.00 ; samples, 25c. Harmless. Pre- 
pared ONLY by 

JAS, P. CAMPBELL, M.D., 

West 16th Street, N. Y. 

Sold by Druggists. 

FACE, HANDS, FEET, 

and all their imperfec- 
tions, including" Facial 
Development, Hair and 
Scalp, Superfluous 
^Hair, Birth Marks, 
Moles, Warts, Moth, 
Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, Black 
Heads, Scars, Pitting, and their 
treatment. Send 10c. for book of 
50 pages, 4th edition. 

Dr, JOHN H, WOOBBUEY, 

3 4 NortH Pearl St., Albany, N. Y- 
S iMiriors— 3 for Jadica, listatmshsd 1S70. 



'OTJieE!' 


sra HEiMCHE ! 


BY USING THE GENUINE 


f- i 


Dr. C. McLano’s 

LIYER PILLS 

PRICE, 25 CENTS. 
FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS. 


Send ns the out- 
side wrapper from a box of the 
genuine Dk. C. ^LANE’S Cele- 
brated Liver ' i’^LS, with your 
address, plainly y^tten, and we 
will send you, by return mail, a 
magnificent package of Chromatic I 
and Oleographlc Cards. 

FLEMING BROS. 

PITTSBURGH, PA. 




CANDY 


CANDY 


Send $1.25, $2.25, 
$3.50, or $5.00 for a 
sample retail box, by 
express, prepaid, of 
the Best CANDIES 
in Amei'ica. -Strictly 
pure, and put up in 
elegant boxes. Suit- 
able for presents. 
Refers to all Chicago. 
Try it. Address, 

C. F. GUNTHER, 

Confectioner, 

212 State St., and 
78 Madison St, 
CHICAGO. 


HOSXE'T'THR’S 

STOMRGH BITTERS 

HAS FOB 35 YEARS BEEN 

Adopted by Physicians and Invalids, 

, AS A REMEDY FOB 

Indigestion, Dyspepsia, 

Fever and Ague, Malaria, 
Neuralgia, Ilheumatism, 

General Debility, 
And other KINDRED DISEASES, 

AS CONFniMED RV 

THOusAiros OF tSltatonials in 
OUR POSSESSION. 

Asb yoi^r Druggist for it, and take nonebuZ 
KOSTETTER’S STO^dACH BITTERS. 



The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baflded their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specifio for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, Invigorating^ 
Conic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a sootliing and strengthen- 
ing nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 

carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 

puj^y vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless In Its effects in any 
condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most eompli- 
cated and obstinate cases of ieucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak bsek, “female weak- 
ness,” anteversion,refTover8ion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of ratomach and other 
distressing symptoraj common to that 
condition. It its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the suilerings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

‘‘Favorite Prescription,” whei» 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dig 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his piUs and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only sj/wp- 
tnms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
largo bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

‘^Favorite Prescription” is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully earned out for many years. 
Liarge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (IGO 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 
NO, MAIli SXBJDET, BUFFALO^ If, T, 



Over 0 million worn during the six years. This manrolons success Is due— 
1st. — ^To the superiority of CORALINE over all other materials, as a stiffener foi 
Corsets 

2nd. —To the superior quality, shape and workmanship of our Corsets, combined 
with their low prices. 

Avoid cheap Imitations made of various kinds of cord. None are genuine unlesi 
**DR. WARNER’S CORALINE ” is printed on inside of steel cover. 

FOB SALK BY ALL LBADZHO MEBOHANTS. 

WARNER BROTHERS. 359 BROADWAY. NEW YORK. 


f 

Mary Anderson writesi 

I am delighted with 
your Coraline Corset. It 
is perfect in fit and ele> 
gant in design and work- 
manship. 










’•A,‘ ■ ■ 

h- ■ '■ ■ 





\.. A ' 


w ( . 


V* 




.** 




> . 


- *1 


's 

4 


J.\* 

»■■ ' *. i.v^ :'■ '{ 



•. ■ -» '■.>•; .,.v\?. Iff.' 

O' At 


" ‘ C . ^ N. • 1 

J' ■ 


feV ' ' ,1 , ' 

• jfanx * • ■ J 


‘ Vi 'w.'IS' • 


I • . 1 




■: f. 

* ' 


yp ^ ‘ 

*'V : 





• ’/ 


f- 


s ■ . % !-. > 


• ““ ■.>■• ' 4 ^, 

.■ .•_« ^ v ,. ' ' 



/ 

4 \ 


.f 


*< )<.r H - . V 




. ■/ 
*■ ; >'■ ■ I A /■ V 


n 


, V 




J * 


,4 

fc' ■ 



s 


»v' . ^ '.UBVUt ■ 


f ■ .:■■■’ ' >■ > j y. , . . 

I ' ■ • ■ ■ ( 1 ■■■' ., V . . 





• • fcT \ 4 ^ 

' ' 


f , 





/ t 


4, 


V, -:'?*, ?Cf 


' ■> /. ‘ v. '.-r'vT'' : sIY:.' ; - 


i 


4. 


I 


f. 

r « 


r « » 




I k 




;?\Wi ' 

f v*. ^ ' ■• t 


* ;*'i . 

irv'L A. . 


[•■ ^ >r- . ' , '> 

N - «4 \, 


r . 

t . 



i' At ^ 


^ ‘ ■' ■“ '-k \ 

4t f • ^ ♦ 

•' ■' C;'-Ci 


•■ iff . » 'V''-. E 



J' 




• ^ -vj- 



<• ’ VH f > ' -V 



•■J • 


n-'A' 


I 


— 





’V’.' ''Vi'fl 


.o*/. 


V*'- -I 

v> --(j J.lCyUi 










I 


icr. <^^cc:<c 




ccc. 

cCC 

cc 

c c 

cc 

cc 

cc; 


CC c. 
<C C 
TCC C 

< 3 : Cc 

-C^c, c? 

C 

C.«_C 

c «rc 

C'^C- 

:c^c 

C.1§C-C 

SC^C 

Ci.C^C 

cc <?<•«::< 

■'Ccd^' 


>^crc.<:c 

^cc-CLiCc 


■<'.cc;/m 

cC' 

'nf^c ^ 

srcccc ^ 
^;<?: CC < 
■i‘^,'.;< cc 

' 

cc^iec. 
xr^r^sc 


c ^ <c: c 
C" c 
: 'C c. 

c. C c 

^'C^c- 

r C c -^<1 

S ^ ^ cc < 
5- c CCC < 
-SV cccc: 
=cccccc 

^c-'Ccrcc' 

>^C; ' ^CdCC 
:^C -. C CCC ' 

Ccxc^^ 

fi-me 

^Cs.'CcctC' 

^CC cccc * 

^Cc :c-^Cl C < 

tc^: CCC. 
ccc ccc; 


CiC 

cc. 

tcc 

cc; 


• cc. < 

EC-: « ■< 
CC ^;cc; ^ ' 
CC c 
C^-.ct.c: c; 

CC^ccc < 

S^' • 

cc cc c 

l-CCc 

c^''.cc;< 

C;-CjC,,<; 
S^-:-TC<- 
S„^.CC 
C : ^c’C< 
C'/CCc ; 
CC' c.c.<; 
C f cr 

Cvc^c : 
; c .ccc . 

. c 

.c <■<> 

_ c. .. c:c<. 

CcC-' 

C rcc 

■ <r .cc^ 

C .1 


rcc 

ccc^ 

' oc'‘;< 

< 3 t' M 


















